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BOOKS  BY  MAURICE  HEWLETT 

Published  bt  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

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HALFWAY  HOUSE 

A  COMEDY  OF  DEGREES 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


A  COMEDY  OF  DEGREES 


BY 

MAURICE   HEWLETT 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
NEW  YORK      :      :       :       :      1908 


Copyright,  1908,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Publisked  June,  1908 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.      MR.    GERMAIN  TAKES   NOTICE 3 

n.      MR.   GERMAIN  REVELS   SEDATELY  .  .  .  .17 

m.      MR.   DUPLESSIS   PREVARICATES 23 

IV.      A  MISS  AND  A  CATCH 34 

V.      HOW  TO   BREAK  A  HEDGE 45 

VI.      MISS   MIDDLEHAM  IS  INVITED   TO   CONFIRM  A  VISION   .  55 

Vn.      MISS   MIDDLEHAM  HAS   VISIONS   OF   HER  OWN        .           .  65 

vin.    friendship's  garland 74 

IX.      THE  WELDING  OF  THE  BOLT 9I 

X.      CRATYLUS  WITH  MARINA:     THE  INCREDIBLE   WORD       .  IO3 

XI.      COOL  COMFORT II3 

Xn.      ALARUMS 123 

Xm.      WHAT   THEY   SAID   AT  HOME I4O 

XIV.      THE   NEWS   REACHES  THE  PYRENEES    .  .  .  .153 

XV.      A  PHILOSOPHER  EMBALES 17I 

XVI.      THE  WEDDING  DAY 181 

XVn.      THE   WEDDING  NIGHT 1 92 

BOOK  II 

I.      IN  WHICH  WE   PAY  A  FIRST  VISIT  TO   SOUTHOVER        .  20  7 
n.      REFLECTIONS   ON  HONEYMOONS   AND   SUCHLIKE    .           .221 

m.      MATTERS   OF   ELECTION 235 

IV.      LONDON  NIGHTS  AND  DAYS 253 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

V.  LORD  GUNNER  ASCERTAINS  WHERE  WE  ARE 

VI.  SENHOUSE  ON  THE   MORAL  LAW 

Vn.  SHE  GLOSSES  THE  TEXT 

Vm.  ADVENTURE   CROWDS  ADVENTURE 

IX.  THE  PATTERAN      . 

X,  THE   BROTHERS  TOUCH  BOTTOM 

XI.  OF   MARY  IN  THE   NORTH       . 

Xn.  COLLOQUY  IN  THE   HILLS       . 

XHI.  THE   SUMMONS 

XIV.  VIGIL 

XV.  THE  DEAD   HAND 

XVI.  WINGS 

XVn.  FIRST  FLIGHT 

XVin.  ENTER  A  BIRD-CATCHER 

XIX.  HEARTACHE   AND  THE  PHILOSOPHER 

XX.  IN  WHICH  BINGO  IS  UNANSWERABLE 


PAGE 
262 

271 

286 

312 

328 

343 
356 

365 
373 

385 

393 
407 

418 


BOOK  I 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


A  COMEDY  OF  DEGREES 


MR.   GERMAIN   TAKES  NOTICE 

It  was  when  Mr.  John  Germain,  a  gentleman  of 
fifty,  and  of  fine  landed  estate  in  Berks — head  of  his 
family,  Deputy-Lieutenant,  Chairman  of  Quarter 
Sessions,  and  I  don't  know  what  not — ^was  paying 
one  of  his  yearly  visits  to  his  brother  James,  who  was 
Rector  of  Misperton  Brand,  in  Somerset,  that  an 
adventure  of  a  sentimental  kind  presented  itself  to 
him,  engaged  him,  carried  him  into  mid-air  upon  a 
winged  horse,  and  set  him  treading  clouds  and  such- 
like filmy  footing.  Chance-caught  combinations, 
associations  tenderly  touched — what  do  I  know? 
He  had  a  vision  and  located  it ;  he  dreamed  a  dream, 
and  began  to  live  it  out;  out  of  a  simple  maid  he 
read  a  young  goddess,  into  a  lover's  ardent  form  he 
pressed  his  leanness  and  grey  hairs.  Bluntly,  he, 
a  widower  of  ten  years'  standing,  fell  in  love  with  a 

3 


4  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

young  person  half  his  age,  and  of  no  estate  at  all — 
but  quite  the  contrary;  and,  after  an  interval  of 
time  which  he  chose  to  ignore,  applied  himself  ear- 
nestly to  the  practice  of  poetry.  There  ensued  certain 
curious  relationships  between  quite  ordinary  people 
which  justify  me  in  calling  my  book  a  Comedy  of 
Degrees. 

This  sudden  seizure  of  the  heart  overtook  him 
one  afternoon  in  July,  on  the  occasion  of  a  Sunday- 
school  feast,  an  annual  affair.  He  had  lent  himself 
to  that  because,  while  he  claimed  his  mornings,  his 
afternoons  were  always  at  the  disposition  of  his 
hostess  and  sister-in-law,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  James 
Germain,  who  naturally  made  the  most  of  them. 
She,  of  course,  must  be  present  at  the  affair,  must 
have  a  tea-party  for  the  notables.  The  Cantacutes 
always  came,  and  the  Binghams;  there  might  be 
others:  John  must  really  consent  to  be  bored.  There 
would  be  no  occasion  to  pass  the  railing  which  sepa- 
rated the  revellers  in  the  paddock  from  the  Rectory 
lawn ;  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  show  himself  and  allow 
Mrs.  Bingham  to  talk  round  about  him.  True,  the 
afternoon  was  very  hot;  but  the  Rectory  garden  was 
at  its  best,  velvet-lawned,  shady  and  trim.  Mr.  Ger- 
main confessed  that  it  was  the  very  day  for  out-of- 
door  merrymaking — by  other  people — and  smilingly 
added  that  the  exertion  of  the  school-feasters  would 
lend  a  savour  to  the  leisure  he  was  promised.  He 
appeared — somewhat  late — in  a  suit  of  summer 
coolness,  and  white  spats,  and  was  charming  with 
Lady  Cantacute,  an  old  friend;    perfect  with  Mrs. 


MR.  GERMAIN  TAKES  NOTICE  5 

Bingham,  whose  fault  was  that  she  was  too  anxious 
to  please.  In  the  absence  of  the  Rector  and  Lord 
Cantacute,  who  were  conferring  on  parish  business, 
these  ladies  made  much  of  their  cavalier.  He  had 
a  comfortable  chair,  which  allowed  him  to  stretch  his 
long  legs  before  him  at  the  right  and  only  angle. 
Leisurely  and  measured  in  all  that  he  did,  talking 
but  little,  he  was  allowed  to  feel  that  his  presence 
was  the  utmost  that  would  be  asked  of  him,  and  that 
leisure  and  measure  were  at  his  disposal.  When, 
therefore,  he  had  said  all  that  seemed  proper,  he 
adjusted  his  glasses,  gave  one  glance  to  the  white 
spat  upon  the  foot  of  his  crossed  leg,  put  his  elbows 
on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  clasped  his  hands,  and  set 
himself  to  observe  the  sports.  All  was  well  with  the 
world  so  far,  and  he — the  handsome,  fine-featured, 
thin  gentleman — as  good  a  thing  as  this  fraction  of  a 
world  contained.  He  was  in  the  mood  to  receive 
impressions  and  be  charitable  to  them.  This  was 
the  moment  chosen  by  the  Blind  God. 

The  flags  drooped  lazily  about  their  poles,  the 
great  elms  beyond  the  paddock  seemed  muflied  in 
their  July  wrappage,  and  a  swoon;  but  over  the 
sward  the  figures  of  the  children  and  their  friends 
flashed  and  darted,  and  crossed  each  other  as  on  a 
scene.  A  stentorian  curate  in  black  and  white  cap 
directed  the  cricket.  Mr.  Germain  marked  his  flying 
coat-tails  and  approved  them.  **Ha!  my  excellent 
friend  Soames!"  he  reflected  aloud,  and  added  that 
years  left  no  marks  upon  Soames.  The  swiping  boys 
were  young  England  at  play — our  future  was  safe  in 


6  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

their  hands,  Soames  to  urge  them.  He  had  his  own 
ideas  about  our  future,  and  called  himself  a  Liberal 
in  politics;  but  confessed  that  Young  England  was 
all  the  better  for  a  Soames  or  two  to  guide  it.  He 
was  a  sound  Churchman. 

His  benevolent  eye,  seeking  other  objects  of 
interest,  was  now  turned  to  the  girls. 

Oranges  and  Lemons  was  the  cry  with  them:  a 
pretty  game,  as  elaborate  and  rhythmical  as  an  old- 
world  dance,  with  a  romp  interposed.  Two  of  the 
tallest  hold  the  gate — their  raised  arms  make  it. 
About  the  skirts  of  each  you  see  the  clustered  bevy 
of  her  capture;  the  doomed  ones  creep  in  a  file  be- 
neath their  hands ;  the  sing-song  swells,  rises,  grows, 
holds — and  presently  falls  with  the  blow. 

The  gate-keepers  stoop,  they  clasp,  they  catch 
close  some  struggling  prisoner;  hot  cheek  lies  fast  to 
pillowing  breast,  laughing  child  to  laughing  maid. 
It  is  the  strife  of  love  in  a  dream;  like  all  figure- 
dances,  it  figures  that;  for  what  cuddling  girl  but 
mimics  there  the  transports  she  is  to  know  one  day  ? 
Sometimes  the  captive  breaks  away  and  runs;  then 
must  the  taker  give  chase:  and  as  the  race  is  swift, 
and  may  be  long,  so  is  the  end  the  sweeter  both  for 
huntress  and  for  quarry.  Kisses  mark  the  end ;  you 
die  of  a  surfeit  of  kisses.  The  strife  of  love  in  a 
dream — a  gentle,  innocent  parody  of  it! 

Whether  these  amiable  musings  were  cause  or 
consequence  of  what  happened  to  catch  Mr.  Ger- 
main's eye  more  than  once  or  twice,  there's  no  tell- 
ing.   I  content  myself  with  recording  that  the  most 


MR.  GERMAIN  TAKES  NOTICE  7 

active  of  those  young  people  beyond  the  railings  was 
a  graceful,  quick-limbed  girl  in  white  muslin — whose 
long  black  sash-ribbons  and  wide-brimmed  hat  of 
straw  marked  her  vividly  out  for  his  contemplation. 
He  was  near-sighted  and  could  get  no  details,  but 
was  agreeably  aware  of  her,  as  the  swiftest  in  pursuit, 
the  hardiest  to  catch  and  hold,  to  be  chased  by  whom 
and  to  be  caught  was  the  aim  of  every  flying  child. 
She  was  the  beloved,  it  was  plain;  her  close  arms 
the  haven  of  choice.  Sitting  in  the  pleasant  shade,  at 
peace  with  himself  and  all  mankind,  Mr.  Germain 
found  in  her  a  stimulating  vein  for  thought  to  ex- 
plore, and  pursued  it  with  zest,  while  Lady  Can- 
tacute  murmured  ^^Dear  things!"  at  intervals,  or 
sighed  for  tea,  and  Mrs.  Bingham  felt  it  her  duty  as 
a  guest  to  envy  the  lot  of  Misperton  Rectory. 

She  had  envied  the  garden,  the  weather,  the  cu- 
rate, the  cricket  field,  and  might  have  gone  on  to 
covet  her  friend  her  rector  had  not  the  "I  say, 
Aggie j"  from  her  youngest  daughter,  Cecily,  given 
her  a  new  object  to  admire. 

**  Aggie,  I  say,"  said  Cecily  to  her  sister,  "you 
know — that  girl  can  run."  Mr.  John  Germain,  as 
the  pivot  of  his  thoughts  was  touched,  turned  with 
animation  to  the  speaker. 

"Indeed,  yes.  She  runs  like  Atalanta,  Miss 
Cecily,  if  you  know  who  Atalanta  was." 

Miss  Cecily  wriggled.  She  was  fifteen.  "Yes, 
I  know.  She  raced  with  Milanion,  and  picked  up 
the  apple.    I  don't  think  Mary's  a  bit  like  her." 

"She  is  as  swift,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mr.  Germain. 


8  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"But  it's  true  she  has  not  yet  picked  up  the  apple. 
Perhaps  that  will  lie  in  front  of  her  some  day,  and 
then  she'll  be  caught." 

*'He  didn't  catch  her,"  said  Cecily.  "She  stopped, 
and  he  won." 

"Tme,"  Mr.  Germain  replied  smiling.  "You 
and  I  mean  the  same  thing,  I  believe." 

To  this  Miss  Cecily  had  no  reply  but  a  sudden  jerk 
of  the  leg.     Mrs.  Bingham  beamed  upon  her  hostess. 

"The  Earthly  Paradise!  My  Cecily  adores  it. 
But  who  is  their  Atalanta,  dear  Mrs.  Germain?" 

Mrs.  James  Germain  said  that  she  had  no  notion, 
which  was  quite  untrue.  Aggie  replied  to  her  mother 
by  pointing  out  the  nymph  of  the  chase.  Mrs.  Bing- 
ham clasped  her  hands. 

* '  There  again !  Your  extraordinary  fortune !  Mary, 
of  course — that  nice  teacher  you  have.  Quite  a 
charming  person!" 

Mrs.  Germain  primmed  her  lips.  "Very  charm- 
ing, I  believe.    But  she's  in  private  service." 

"Do  you  mean  she's  somebody's  maid,  Constan- 
tia?"  This  came  briskly  from  Lady  Cantacute, 
who  knew  very  well  what  had  been  meant,  but  had 
a  kind  heart.  Mr.  John  Germain,  while  watching 
the  players,  listened. 

"I  think  you  must  know  her,"  Mrs.  James  ex- 
plained. "She  is  governess — I  suppose  you  would 
call  it — to  Nunn's  family.  Nursery-governess,  I 
fancy,  is  the  phrase.  She  teaches  in  our  Sunday- 
school,  it  is  true;  but  that  is  a  privilege  rather  than 
a  duty.    At  least,  we  consider  it  so." 


MR.  GERMAIN  TAKES  NOTICE  9 

*' Quite  so,  quite  so,"  said  Mrs.  Bingham.  *'You 
mean  that  one  doesn't  pay " 

*^0f  course  one  doesn't,"  repHed  the  Rector's  wife, 
and  would  have  closed  the  discussion. 

But  her  brother-in-law  reopened  it  by  saying  that 
she  appeared  to  him  an  attractive  young  lady,  and 
caused  Mrs.  James  to  sniff. 

^'I  should  not  have  said  that;  indeed,  we  think 
her  plain."  Surely  enough  of  the  young  person :  but 
the  conversation  hung  about  her  yet. 

'*She  has  pretty  manners,"  Lady  Cantacute  con- 
sidered; and  her  eyes  were  good.  Mrs.  James 
allowed  her  eyes.  ^^They  speak,  I  believe,  upon 
occasion,"  she  added.  ^^But  I  am  rather  deaf  to 
that  kind  of  language." 

'^  Perhaps,  my  dear  Constantia,  they  don't  address 
themselves  to  you,"  said  Lady  Cantacute,  and  Mr. 
Germain,  stretching  his  arms  forward  to  the  fulness 
of  comfort,  resumed  his  observation  of  Oranges  and 
Lemons.  Cecily  Bingham  heard  the  click  of  his 
clasped  fingers. 

*^Very  possibly  I  should  be  the  last  to  receive 
them,"  Mrs.  James  was  heard  to  say,  ^'though  I 
believe  they  address  themselves  otherwise  impar- 
tiallv." 

^'I  am  sure  she  is  a  good  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Bingham, 
and  to  that  the  lady  of  Misperton  said  ^^We  all  hope 
so." 

A  merry,  a  warm-hearted  girl.  Mr.  Germain  was 
confident  of  that.  When  a  child  of  her  party  tripped 
in  running,  and  fell,  how  she  picked  her  up,  and  sit- 


lO  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

ting,  cradled  her  upon  her  lap  and  soothed  her  with 
voice  and  soft  cheek  and  quick,  kissing  hps.  A  pretty 
sight,  a  gracious  act  sweetly  done.  Absorbed,  he 
lost  the  thread  of  the  talk  about  him,  but  awoke  to 
hear  his  sister-in-law's  tones  of  authority  telling  Mrs. 
Bingham  things  which  he  wished  to  know. 

''Yes,  Middleham— Mary  Middleham.— No,  she's 
three  or  four  and  twenty,  I  believe.  She  has  been 
here  a  year  or  two — teaching  the  little  Nunns.  No, 
no  French ;  and  the  merest  rudiments  of  piano.  But 
for  children  of  that  position  piano  I  consider  absurd. 
Nunn  is  a  most  sensible  man — no  airs  at  all.  .  .  . 
Yes,  she  has  nice  ways  with  children;  they  mind  her 
and  like  her,  too.  Really,  she  and  Soames  manage 
everything — but — that  is  most  tiresome!"  Mrs. 
James  sat  upright.  ''I  must  speak  to  her.  I  see  that 
they  are  doing  precisely  what  I  did  not  intend  with 
the  tea.  It's  very  stupid  of  Mrs.  Blain.  I'll  send 
somebody  for  her  if  I — ."  She  looked  about  her, 
vaguely  offended  that  a  footman  did  not  emerge  from 
the  clump  of  pampas;  and — "Cecily,  darling,"  said 
Mrs.  Bingham. 

Cecily  jumped  up.    ''I'll  go,  Mrs.  Germain." 

"That  is  very  nice  of  you,  my  dear.  Do.  Tell 
Mary  that  I  want  to  speak  to  her  here." 

Miss  Cecily  vaulted  her  black  legs  over  the  rail- 
ing and  ran  up  the  field  whistling.  Conversation, 
unaided  now  by  Mrs.  Germain,  ran  a  languid 
course. 

But  Oranges  and  Lemons  stopped  short,  and 
crimped  tresses  could  be  swept  from  shoulders  and 


MR.  GERMAIN  TAKES   NOTICE  n 

eyes,  the  better  to  regard  Miss  Cecily  from  the  Rec- 
tory party.  Presently,  after  an  eager  colloquy,  ex- 
pressive on  one  side  of  dismay  and  disarray,  Miss 
Cecily  was  seen  returning  with  her  convoy,  talking 
gaily.  The  captive  nymph,  though  still  busy  with 
hat  and  hairpins,  or  fanning  herself  with  her  pocket 
handkerchief,  walked  confidently,  carried  her  head 
well,  and  joined  happily  in  the  laugh.  This  until 
within  hail.  But  then  she  changed.  Her  tongue  was 
still,  her  head  was  bent  the  least  in  the  world,  and 
her  eyes  became  guarded  and  watchful.  At  the  rail- 
ing, which  Miss  Cecily  again  neatly  vaulted.  Miss 
Middleham  paused,  and  blushed  before  she  climbed. 
But  she  had  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  for  Mr.  Ger- 
main was  looking  at  his  white  spats.  When  she 
stood  before  her  betters,  however,  he,  following  her 
example,  stood  before  her.  And  now  he  observed 
her  sedately. 

He  was  struck  first  by  a  caution  in  her  fine  eyes 
which  caused  them  to  loom  as  with  reproach,  to  peer 
as  if  she  doubted.  Her  colour,  heightened  by  exertion 
and,  perhaps,  by  shyness,  was  very  becoming  to  her. 
She  glowed  like  a  peach  burnt  by  the  sun.  She 
looked  wholesome  and  healthy,  and  her  voice  did 
not  belie  her  appearance — a  fresh,  confident,  young 
voice.  She  kept  her  hands  behind  her — as  if  she 
were  a  catechumen — and  with  her  shoulders  back, 
looked  watchfully  at  you  as  she  listened  and  replied. 
The  attitude  showed  her  figure  to  be  charming — 
softly,  tenderly  curved ;  a  budding  figure.  Undoubt- 
edly she  was  pleasant  to  behold,  but  she  would  have 


12  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

been  no  more  to  any  one  but  a  confirmed  amorist  had 
it  not  been  for  her  eyes. 

Mr.  Germain  was  Httle  of  an  amorist  by  tempera- 
ment, though  time  and  the  hour  had  led  him  to 
muse  over  maids  at  play.  And  that  being  so,  he  was 
shocked  rather  than  struck  by  the  discrepancy  be- 
tween the  playing  nymph  of  his  fancies  and  this 
healthy  sunburnt  girl  with  peering  eyes.  It  almost 
shocked  him  to  see  her  so  wary.  It  gave  her  a  guilty 
look  as  if  she  feared  detection  momently.  He  thought 
of  a  squirrel  in  leafage,  of  a  dormouse  by  a  tree- bole; 
he  thought,  above  all,  of  flinching,  of  harsh  treat- 
ment, of  the  whip.  ''Great  God,"  he  cried  to  him- 
self, "what  a  state  of  things  is  this  when,  upon  a  sum- 
mons suddenly,  flashing  limbs  grow  stiff  and  spar- 
kling eyes  burn  large  with  apprehension ! "  And  then 
he  said  in  his  heart,  ''To  woo  the  confidence  back  to 
such  eyes,  to  still  the  doubts  in  such  a  breast,  were 
work  for  a  true  man." 

From  the  height  of  his  argument  to  the  flat  of  the 
facts  is  a  longish  drop.  The  Catechism  had  taken 
this  simple  form.  "Mary,"  Mrs.  Germain  had  said 
with  something,  but  very  little  after  all,  of  the  air  of  a 
proprietor,  "I  see  that  they  are  bringing  out  the  tea." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Germain."  A  young,  fresh,  confident 
voice. 

"Surely,  it  is  not  time?" 

"Tea  was  to  be  at  four,  Mrs.  Germain." 

"Oh.  Well,  the  Rector  is  busy  with  his  lordship 
and  cannot  be  disturbed.  Tea  must  not  begin  until 
he  can  say  Grace." 


MR.  GERMAIN  TAKES  NOTICE  13 

"Very  well,  Mrs.  Germain.    But  Mr.  Soames— — '' 

"No  doubt.  But  I  don't  wish  Mr.  Soames  to  say 
Grace."  This  was  explained  to  Mrs.  Bingham. 
"Mr.  Soames  is  a  most  worthy  young  man — we  are 
fortunate  in  him.  But  he  knows  only  two  forms  of 
Grace — Benedictus  henedicat^  which  is  of  course, 
absurd,  and  For  these  and  all  Thy  mercies.''^ 

"Oh,"  said  Lady  Cantacute,  "and  won't  that 
do?" 

Mrs.  James  looked  to  the  tree-tops.  "We  think 
that  village  children  should  be  taught  to  expect  other 
things  besides  mercies.  James  always  says  For  what 
we  are  about  to  receive^  which  of  course  might  be 
anything." 

"I  suppose  it  might,  poor  things,"  said  Lady  Can- 
tacute, comfortably;  and  Mrs.  Bingham  whispered, 
"So  sensible!"  to  her  eldest  daughter. 

"Besides,  the  Rector  is  the  proper  person  on  such 
a  day.    See  to  it,  if  you  please,  Mary." 

"Very  well,  Mrs.  Germain."  She  lowered  her 
eyes  again  directly  she  had  spoken,  as  she  was  apt  to 
do  before  her  notables. 

"My  dear,"  said  Lady  Cantacute  suddenly,  "you 
look  very  hot."  She  now  looked  hotter,  but  she 
laughed  as  she  admitted  the  fact.  Laughing  became 
her.  Mr.  Germain  admired  her  teeth — small,  white, 
and,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  perfect.  He  formed  a 
higher  opinion  of  Lacjy  Cantacute's  character — an 
old  friend.  To  make  a  young  girl  smile  and  show 
her  teeth  is  to  use  both  tact  and  benevolence — natu- 
ral benevolence. 


14  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"It  is  a  very  hot  afternoon,"  he  said,  as  if  dehver- 
ing  a  considered  judgment,  and  as  he  bhnked  upon 
her  she  flashed  him  one  of  her  hasty  looks. 

"Yes,  it  is,  Mr.  Germain." 

"And  I  think  you  must  be  a  most  unselfish  young 
lady." 

"Oh,  no,  Mr.  Germain,  indeed."  She  was  quite 
pleased,  and  looked  very  pretty  when  pleased. 

"But  I  must  maintain  that  you  are.  You  put  us 
luxurious  people  to  shame.  Now,  Miss  Cecily  and 
I  will  undertake  to  help  you  after  tea.  Is  that  a  bar- 
gain. Miss  Cecily?"  Cecily  looked  dogged,  and 
said,  If  he  liked." 

"All  well  at  home,  dear  child?"  Mrs.  Bingham 
asked  here,  and  made  Cecily  snort.  I  am  afraid, 
too,  that  she  nudged  her  sister  Agatha. 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you,  Mrs. ."    She  stopped, 

her  voice  tailing  off  into  breath,  as  if  she  guessed  that 
she  had  been  using  too  many  names  just  now,  and 
yet  knew  that,  from  her  sort,  the  full  title  was  ex- 
pected. Conversation  not  being  resumed,  Mrs. 
James  said  shortly,  "That  will  do,  Mary,  I  think. 
See  about  the  tea,  will  you?" 

Miss  Middleham  promised,  and  retired  with 
veiled  eyes  and  an  inclination  of  the  head ;  but  Cecily 
asked,  "May  I  go  with  her,  mother?"  and  went 
without  the  answer. 

Their  backs  turned,  the  rail  safely  over,  there  was 
a  different  Miss  Middleham  to  be  found,  the  spar- 
kling, audacious,  merry  Miss  Middleham  of  Oranges 
and  Lemons  who,  to  Cecily  Bingham^s  "I  say,  I  can 


MR.  GERMAIN  TAKES  NOTICE  15 

run,"  replied,  ^'And  so  can  I,  you  know,"  and  egged 
Cecily  on  to  propose  ''Let's  race  to  that  clump  of 
grass."  Miss  Middleham  flew,  and  Cecily  tumbled 
on  to  her  at  the  winning  post.  They  resumed  their 
way  close  together. 

Her  arm  within  Mary  Middleham' s,  Cecily  talked 
in  jerks,  between  breaths.  "I  say — old  Germain 
talked  a  lot  about  you."  The  colour  flew  over 
Mary's  face,  was  reflected  in  her  eyes. 

''No!    Did  he  really?" 

"I  swear  he  did.  He  called  you  Atalanta.  He 
said — I  say — wasn't  it  rot  of  Mother,  asking  after 
your  people?  She  hadn't  the  faintest  idea  whether 
you  had  any,  and  didn't — I  suppose  you  have, 
though?" 

"I  have  indeed — lots.    I've  got  four  sisters." 

"Oh,  sisters!  No  brothers?"  She  shook  her 
head. 

"I've  got  one,"  said  Cecily,  "and  he's  at  Eton  all 
the  summer.    Jolly  for  him." 

"Very  jolly,  I  should  think.  Now  I  am  to  tell 
Mr.  Soames  about  the  tea.    Don't  run  away." 

"Rather  not.  I'll  wait  here  for  you.  I  hate  cu- 
rates. Father's  got  two — one  tame  one  and  one  wild 
one.  We  call  them  Romulus  and  Remus,  after  some 
puppies  we  had  once."  They  separated  with  eye- 
signals. 

Mr.  Soames — the  Rev.  Seymour  Soames,  B.A. — 
was  explicitly  a  curate,  flaming-haired,  crimson, 
spectacled,  and  boyish.  He  was  very  enthusiastic, 
and  when  enthusiastic  could  not  always  rely  upon  his 


1 6  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

voice.  Being  now  told  his  affair,  he  said  "I  see" 
very  often,  and  concluded,  ^'Very  well.  Miss  Mary, 
I'll  do  as  I'm  told — as  you  tell  me,  you  know.  You're 
the  queen  of  this  beanfeast.  I'm  not  above  taking 
orders  from  the  head  of  affairs,  you  see."  It  was 
indeed  to  be  seen  that  he  was  not.  "Thank  you, 
Mr.  Soames,"  said  the  Mary  of  laughing  eyes,  and 
as  she  went  he  sighed,  collected  himself  and  plunged 
into  hectoring  the  urn-bearers.  Miss  Middleham 
and  her  young  friend  strolled  off  arm-in-arm,  and  the 
last  thing  to  be  heard  spoken  between  them  was, 
"What  did  Mr.  Germain  really  say?"  The  rest  was 
whispers. 


II 

MR.  GERMAIN  REVELS   SEDATELY 

Conversation  within  the  Rectory  garden  did  not, 
could  not,  revive  until  the  young  footman,  released 
from  his  urn-bondage,  could  bring  out  the  tea-tray. 
Punctually  with  that  glittering  apparatus  came  the 
Rector  and  Lord  Cantacute,  prosperous,  clean, 
leisurely  gentlemen  both :  the  peer  with  a  huntsman's 
face  and  white  whiskers,  a  square-topped  felt  hat 
and  neatly  folded  white  tie  with  a  foxhead  pin,  Mr. 
James  Germain,  thin,  smiling,  and  fastidious, 
amused  at  his  own  benevolence.  A  little  desultory 
talk  flickered  up  on  their  approach;  the  Rector  was 
packed  off  to  say  Grace  for  what  the  revellers  might 
be  about  to  receive.  Lord  Cantacute  took  his  tea 
and  asked,  "Where's  Hertha?"  Miss  Hertha  de 
Speyne  was  only  child  of  his  noble  house. 

"Hertha's  gone  to  play  tennis  at  the  cottage — in 
this  grilling  heat,"  said  her  ladyship.  "But  she's  to 
be  here  to  tea.  Mrs.  Duplessis  is  very  sadly,  I'm 
told.  Ah!"  and  she  put  up  her  lorgnette.  "Here 
they  come,  dear  things." 

A  tall  young  man  in  white  flannels  accompanied 

a  tall  young  lady,  also  in  white,  round  the  house. 

17 


1 8  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

^'What  a  pair!"  murmured  Mrs.  Bingham  to  her 
eldest  daughter,  and  caused  Lady  Cantacute  to  say 
rather  sharply,  "Not  at  all.  They've  known  each 
other  from  the  cradle.'' 

Mr.  Tristram  Duplessis  was  this  young  man — 
a  cousin  of  Mrs.  James  Germain's.  He  was  good- 
looking,  every  foot  of  him,  and  there  were  six,  high- 
coloured,  light  in  the  eye.  He  had  a  profusion  of 
fair  and  straight  hair,  which  he  was  accustomed  to 
jerk  away  from  his  forehead,  and  a  trick  of  knitting 
his  browns,  as  if  he  scowled,  and  of  biting  his  cheek, 
as  if  he  w^as  annoyed.  Very  frequently  he  was. 
Apart  from  these  peculiarities,  his  manners  were 
easy — Mr.  John  Germain  thought,  much  too  easy. 
One  of  his  least  pleasing  habits  was  his  way  of  look- 
ing at  you  in  conversation  as  if  you  were  either  ridic- 
ulous or  his  property.  Mr.  Germain,  very  sure  of 
being  neither,  did  not  pretend  to  like  this  youth. 

He  was  greeted  with  '^  How's  your  mother,  Tris- 
tram?" from  Lady  Cantacute,  and  replied,  ''I  be- 
lieve she's  ill — at  least,  she  says  so;"  whereat  the 
second  Miss  Bingham  choked  in  her  tea-cup,  and 
Mr.  Duplessis  looked  at  her  for  a  minute  with  nar- 
rowed eyes. 

Mrs.  Bingham  said,  "Oh,  I  hope  not,"  with 
solicitude. 

"Naturally,"  said  Duplessis,  "and  so  do  I.  I  can 
only  tell  you  what  she  says."  He  helped  himself  to 
bread,  butter,  and  jam,  took  the  chair  which  had  of 
late  been  Mr.  John  Germain's,  and  ate  in  silence  and 
complete  comfort.     Miss  de  Speyne  helped  herself. 


MR.  GERMAIN  REVELS   SEDATELY  19 

too.  Her  tennis  dress  had  the  air  of  a  riding  habit, 
and  her  person  that  of  a  young  Amazon.  She  was 
not  only  sumptuous,  but  severe,  a  golden  beauty,  as 
nearly  indifferent  to  the  fact  as  a  girl  may  be.  ''Helen 
of  Troy,  fancy-free,  before  Paris  beguiled  her,"  she 
had  been  called — but  the  Diana  of  the  Louvre  comes 
readiest  to  mind. 

Mr.  John  Germain,  seeing  his  chair  in  possession 
— and  in  that  of  Duplessis — crossed  the  railing  and 
walked  over  the  field  towards  the  trestle-tables  where 
the  scholars  feasted.  Miss  Bingham — the  eldest — 
and  Duplessis  were  now  side  by  side.  *' Your  young 
lady  has  made  another  conquest,"  she  told  him,  and 
nodded  towards  the  severe,  retreating  form.  Duples- 
sis observed  her  calmly.  ^'It's  no  good,  Mildred," 
he  said.  *' You  can't  get  a  rise  out  of  me,  you  know." 
She  laughed.  "I  think  I've  been  saved  the  trouble, 
I  was  only  calling  your  attention  to  it.  He  is  greatly 
interested."  The  young  man's  answer  was  to  look 
at  Mr.  Germain,  retreating  still  in  a  stately  manner, 
and  then  at  Mildred  Bingham.  Graphic  commentary 
enough. 

When  Mr.  Germain  approached  the  tables.  Miss 
Middleham,  who  had  been  very  aware  of  his  coming, 
became  instantly  circumspect.  He  advanced  delib- 
erately and  stood  by  her  side  for  a  while  without 
speaking:  he  then  offered  him.self  to  hand  tea-cups, 
and  when  she  assured  him  that  the  work  was  done, 
held  to  his  post  without  any  more  words  or  seeming 
embarrassment.  He  was  affable  to  Mr.  Soames,  if 
somewhat  lofty;  spoke  of  cricket  and  cricketers,  the 


20  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

performances  of  Somerset,  and  of  its  champion, 
whom  he  was  careful  to  call  Mr.  Palairet.  For 
Berks,  his  own  county,  he  apologized.  He  had  a 
theory,  not  fully  worked  out  yet,  that  the  Scandi- 
navian blood  in  us  produced  the  best  athletes.  Con- 
sider Yorkshire  and  Lancashire.  Kent,  too:  there 
was  an  undoubted  strain  of  the  Norseman  in  Kent. 
Surrey  was  against  him — apparently;  but  he  could 
not  admit  it.  Of  course,  London  gave  the  pick  of 
everything;  Surrey,  a  metropolitan  shire,  could 
hardly  be  reckoned,  nor,  by  a  parity  of  reasoning, 
Middlesex.  Mr.  Soames,  who  had  not  hitherto  con- 
sidered the  ethnological  side  of  his  game,  shook  his 
head  and  said,  "No,  by  jingo!"  then  plunged  to  an- 
other table  and  appeared  to  be  busy.  Mr.  Germain 
turned  to  Miss  Middleham  and  begged  to  know  how 
he  could  be  of  service.  "I  must  make  good  my  boast: 
I  rely  upon  the  loyalty  of  Miss  Cecily  Bingham.  Do 
you  play  after  tea?"  She  said  that  there  would  be 
games.  "For  instance?"  he  inquired,  and  Mr. 
Soames,  who  was  now  hovering  near  again,  said, 
"We  shall  finish  the  match.  Perhaps  you  would 
care  to  umpire?"  But  Mr.  Germain  had  picked  up 
a  small  wooden  implement  and  was  turning  it  about 
like  a  fan.  Bat,  trap,  and  ball,  he  supposed?  She 
laughed  him  yes.  "Very  well,  then,"  said  he,  "you 
shall  allow  me  to  help  you  in  bat,  trap,  and  ball." 
Cecily  Bingham's  eyes  had  now  to  be  avoided  at  all 
costs. 

The  tall,  stiff-shouldered  gentleman  made  good 
his  word — if  that  can  be  called  playing  the  game 


MR.  GERMAIN  REVELS   SEDATELY  21 

where  a  player  never  hits  the  ball,  frequently  him- 
self, and  once  (with  a  resounding  smack)  the  boy 
fielding  behind  him.  Grouped  girls  admired  with 
open  mouths;  but  the  temptation  to  giggle  when  he 
caught  himself  for  the  second  time  upon  the  elbow 
and  betrayed  something  of  the  torment  he  suffered 
was  not  to  be  resisted.  Miss  Middleham  bit  her  lip, 
but  turned  to  rend  one  of  her  pupils.  ^'  Gracie,"  she 
said  in  a  fierce  whisper,  ^'if  you  dare  to  laugh  I'll 
never  speak  to  you  again." 

''Here  comes  Tristram,"  said  Cecily,  but  Miss 
Middleham  had  no  need  to  be  told  that.  She  was 
very  busy  teaching  a  small  boy  how  to  wield  the  bat 
which  Mr.  Germain  now  hastened  to  discard. 
•'Thank  you,  Mr.  Germain,"  she  said  sincerely. 
"It's  very  kind  of  you." 

"I  am  delighted  to  have  been  of  the  least  service 
to  you,"  he  replied  with  a  bow.  "You  set  us  all  an 
example  which  I,  for  one,  am  proud  to  follow." 

The  games  languished,  flickered  out  under  the 
calm  eyes  of  Mr.  Duplessis,  but  he  took  no  part  in 
reviving  them.  Nor  did  Miss  Middleham  do  more 
than  pretend  to  instruct.  He  stood,  hands  in  pockets, 
for  a  while,  looking  at  nothing,  whistling  softly  to 
himself,  then  strolled  towards  Mary  Middleham  and, 
without  looking  at  her,  said  two  or  three  words.  .She 
listened  to  them  intently  without  turning  her  head, 
said,  "Yes,"  and  went  on  with  her  business  of  the 
moment.  Still  whistling,  Duplessis  strolled  away, 
and,  in  passing,  tweaked  Cecily  Bingham's  straight 
hair. 


2  2  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

Mr.  Germain,  after  salutations  of  a  courtly  kind, 
had  returned  leisurely  to  the  Rectory  Garden — to 
help  his  sister-in-law  feel  the  early  peaches  on  the 
wall. 


in 

MR.   DUPLESSIS   PREVARICATES 

That  evening  there  was  a  vacant  place  at  the 
Rectory  dinner-table.  Tristram  Duplessis  was  to 
have  filled  it,  but  did  not  appear  until  dessert.  He 
entered  then  with  smiles  and  light-hearted  apologies. 

"It  isn't  often  that  I  work,  you'll  say,  but  when  I 
do,  I  believe  I'm  not  to  be  restrained.  Thanks, 
Molesworth,  anything  will  do  for  me."  This  was 
how  he  put  it,  first  to  his  hostess,  next  to  the  anxious 
butler,  each  of  whom  knew  better.  He  chose  to  add, 
for  the  general  benefit,  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  got  in- 
terested, and  entirely  forgot  that  a  man  must  eat." 

"Or  behave  himself,"  said  the  Rector,  with  lifted 
brows. 

Duplessis  paused,  soup-spoon  in  air.  "He  should, 
no  doubt.  That's  why  I'm  so  late.  I  had  to  dress, 
you  see.  Anon  Soames  must  needs  come  in  and  talk 
his  cricket.  They  play  Cromberton  to-morrow,  and 
are  two  short.  Will  I  be  one,  and  bring  another 
man?  says  Soames."  The  spoon  was  emptied  and 
put  down.  "I  half  promised  to  bring  you,  you 
know,  Germain."     This  was  suavely  addressed  to 

Mr.  John  Germain,  who  unblinkingly  received  it. 

23 


24  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"Where  is  your  match?"  Mr.  Germain  was  peel- 
ing a  peach,  and  did  not  look  up.  He  was  told,  a 
home  match,  and  then,  v^^ithout  faltering  before  the 
"You  play?"  of  as  rude  a  young  man  as  these  islands 
can  contain,  replied  deliberately,  "I  am  very  ready 
to  oblige  Mr.  Soames."  The  hush  upon  the  dinner- 
table  which  followed  this  declaration  was  its  most 
eloquent  commentary.  Mrs.  James  Germain  sur- 
veyed the  walls,  as  if  calling  them  to  witness  her 
secret  thoughts.  The  Rector  drained  his  glass  of 
sherry,  and  took  another. 

"My  dear  fellow,  you  make  me  feel  an  old  fogey," 
he  said.  "Do  you  know  that  I've  not  had  a  bat  in 
my  hand  since  I  left  Cambridge?  And  you'll  for- 
give me  for  remarking  that  you  haven't  either,  to  the 
best  of  my  belief." 

Mr.  Germain,  whose  serenity  was  proof,  reflected 
before  he  replied  that  that  seemed  an  excellent  reason 
for  having  one  to-morrow.  "Assuredly,"  he  said, 
"I  shall  rally  to  Mr.  Soames,  with  whom  I  had  a 
little  chat  this  afternoon.  He  seemed  an  amiable 
and  intelligent  young  man." 

"I  like  Soames,"  the  Rector  agreed.  "He's  a 
worker." 

Mrs.  James  said  sharply,  "He  needs  to  be,"  and 
received  a  bow.  "My  dear,  it  is  now  you  who  put  me 
to  shame." 

"Not  in  the  least,  James,"  cried  the  lady.  "You 
are  as  incapable  of  the  feeling  as  I  am  of  the  action." 

The  Rector  twinkled.  "Shameless?  Really,  my 
dear " 


MR.  DUPLESSIS  PREVARICATES  25 

"While  Soames  plays  cricket,  Cousin  James 
writes  sound  theology,"  said  Duplessis,  and  got  the 
lady  off  the  rocks. 

Mr.  John  Germain  was  now  sedately  sipping  his 
port. 

"That  was  a  pleasant  girl  you  had  here,"  he  said, 
and  got  his  sister-in-law's  attention.  Duplessis  did 
not  look  up  from  his  plate,  but  he  listened. 

"You  mean,  I  suppose ?" 

"I  mean  Mrs.  Bingham's  girl — the  youngest  of 
the  three.  I  had  a  little  chat  with  her,  too — over  our 
games.  I  was  pleased  with  her  friendly  ways.  They 
sit  charmingly  upon  young  ladies  who  are  so  apt  to 
think  that  because  their  frocks  are  short  their  man- 
ners may  be." 

Mrs.  James  spoke  to  her  plate.  "I  think  I  under- 
stand, but  am  not  altogether  prepared  to  agree  with 
you.  Of  course,  at  such  gatherings  one  welcomes 
help ;  but  I  doubt  whether  it  is  wise  to  put  ideas  into 
heads  which " 

"Which  are  not  capable  of  holding  'em?"  asked 
the  Rector,  using  his  eyebrows. 

"Which  can  have  little  or  no  use  for  them,  per- 
haps." 

Mr.  Germain,  having  given  this  oracle  due  atten- 
tion, pronounced  upon  it  as  if  he  were  admonishing 
a  poacher.  "I  am  constrained  to  say  that  I  did  not 
observe  a  preponderance  of  ideas  in  Miss  Cecily's 
conversation." 

"Took  the  rails  very  neatly,  I  thought,"  Duplessis 
put  in,  but  Mrs.  James  was  not  to  be  balked. 


26  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"I  don't  object  to  her  taking  rails  or  anything  else 
of  the  sort.  But  I  certainly  think  it  a  pity  that  she 
should  take  Mary  Middleham's  arm,  and  walk 
among  the  children  as  if  they  were  bosom  friends." 

Mr.  Germain  squared  his  shoulders  and  lifted  his 
head  to  reply.  '^Miss  Middleham — "  he  said;  but 
he  was  a  slow  beginner;  Mrs.  James  had  risen.  It 
was  her  husband  who  fired  the  parting  shot,  that  he 
would  as  soon  take  Mary  Middleham's  arm  as  that 
of  any  one  in  the  parish ;  and  it  was  Duplessis,  with 
his  hand  on  the  door,  who  received  her  answering 
shake  of  the  head,  and  peered  after  her  with  quizzical 
eyes. 

Conversation  at  her  exit  was  between  those  two. 
John  Germain  never  spoke  to  the  young  man  if  he 
could  help  it,  and  if  he  had  occasion  to  look  at  him 
always  blinked  as  he  did  so.  Just  now  he  had  no 
occasion,  being  occupied  with  his  thoughts,  smiling 
quietly  at  them,  drumming  time  to  them  with  his 
thin  fingers  on  the  table. 

We  must  inquire  into  Mr.  Tristram's  avowed 
labours,  and  may  not,  perhaps,  he  surprised  to  find 
out  of  what  nature  they  were.  They  had  taken  him, 
not  to  the  study  and  the  lamp,  but  into  Lord  Canta- 
cute's  fine  park  by  a  wicket  in  the  wall,  to  a  largely 
spreading  oak-tree  and  a  seat  upon  the  roots,  to  el- 
bows on  knees,  a  cigar,  and  some  moments  of  frown- 
ing meditation,  from  which  a  light  step  upon  the 
acorns  caused  him  to  look  up,  but  not  to  rise.  Miss 
Middleham,  very  flushed  and  bright-eyed,  ap- 
proached.    She  wore  a  cloak  over  her  white  dress. 


MR.  DUPLESSIS  PREVARICATES  27 

Watching  her,  his  eyes  narrowed,  and  as  she  came 
near  hers  lost  much  of  their  hght. 

^'Good  evening,  Mr.  Duplessis,"  she  said  with 
careful  formahty. 

He  disregarded  the  greeting.  "You're  late,  my 
young  friend." 

Then  her  grievance  broke  from  her,  and  her  eyes 
were  eloquent  with  reproach.  "My  heart  is  in  my 
mouth.  I  ought  not  to  have  come.  You  ought  not 
to  expect  it." 

"I  don't,"  he  said.  "I  ask,  but  I  never  expect — 
and  mostly  I  don't  want.    What's  the  matter?" 

"Oh,"  she  sighed,  "anything — everything.  You 
never  know  who  you  may  happen  upon.  And — if 
you're  going  to  be  cross  with  me — — " 

"I'm  not,  my  dear.  I'm  only  cross  with  things 
that — well,  with  other  sorts  of  things.  Come  and 
sit  down.    It's  all  right  now." 

She  obeyed,  but  at  some  distance.  She  arranged 
her  skirts  over  her  ankles,  and  waited,  not  without 
the  colour  of  expectancy,  looking  down  at  the  toe  of 
her  shoe.    Duplessis  surveyed  her  at  leisure. 

"Well,"  he  said,  and  flicked  the  ash  from  his 
cigar,  "I  observed  your  junketings  at  the  Rectory. 
My  dear,  you  pleased." 

She  looked  prim.    "Did  I  really?" 

"You  know  that  you  did.  How  did  you  find  old 
Germain?" 

"He  was  very  kind." 

"So  I  gathered.    But  how  was  he  kind?" 

"He  was  very  kind." 


28  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"My  dear  girl,  I  didn't  ask  you  how  kind  he  was, 
but.  How  was  he  kind  ?'' 

"I  beg  your  pardon.    He  praised  me." 

*'Andyouhked  that?" 

She  made  some  show  of  spirit.  ^^Of  course  I  did. 
We  all  do — if  we  deserve  it." 

"We'll  pass  the  quibble.  Well — and  did  you 
deserve  it?" 

He  got  a  reproachful  look — and  was  rewarded. 

"I  did  my  best.    I  got  very  hot  and  was  overtired. 
I'm  awfully  tired  now."    If  she  expected  pity  from 
so  naive  an  appeal,  she  got  none. 

"Well?    Why  come  out,  if  you  are  tired?" 

She  flamed.  "Because  you  asked  me — because 
you  said — I  wish  I  had  not  come  with  all  my  heart." 
She  was  on  the  edge  of  tears. 

"I  asked  you  because  I  thought  that  you  would 
like  to  come.  I  have  had  some  reason  to  think  so. 
But  we  won't  talk  about  it  if  it  distresses  you.  Have 
jou  read  my  book?" 

She  admitted  that. 

"Well?" 

Her  defences  broken,  she  looked  at  him  for  the  first 
time.    "It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  let  me  read  it." 

But  he  couldn't  have  her  praises.  "Oh,  kind! 
Everybody's  kind — to  you.  What  did  you  think 
about  it?"    That  sent  her  eyelids  down. 

"I  don't  suppose  I  understood  half  of  it.  I'm 
not  clever,  you  know." 

He  chuckled.  "I'm  not  sure  about  that.  Did 
you  hke  'The  Saint's  Walk'?" 


MR.  DUPLESSIS  PREVARICATES  29 

"It  was  beautiful." 

"It  was  all  about  you,  let  me  tell  you.  You  in  that 
red  frock  you  had." 

She  shook  her  head.    "Oh,  no,  no." 

"But  I  am  telling  you  that  it  was.  It  was  an  ex- 
ercise perhaps — an  exercise  in  the  scenic.  It  may  well 
be  that  there  are  no  Saints — but  either  you  can  look 
the  part,  or  I  can  see  you  in  it." 

She  may  have  had  a  sense  that  this  kind  of  talk 
was  intolerable,  and  her  silence  may  have  expressed 
it.  Or  she  may  have  been  ashamed  to  find  out  that 
it  was  not  intolerable.  At  any  rate,  she  made  no 
attempt  to  break  down  the  arm^s  length  at  which  he 
chose  to  hold  her,  while  he  continued  to  survey  her, 
and  to  entertain  himself. 

"You  cling  to  your  saintship?    Is  that  it?" 

She  raised  her  eyebrows,  not  her  head.  "You 
have  just  told  me  that  I  am  not  a  saint.  I  think  that 
you  know  very  well." 

"If  you  were — I  suppose  you  mean — you  would 
not  be  talking  to  me  under  the  Royal  Oak?" 

She  laughed  ruefully.  "No,  indeed.  I  ought  not 
to  be  here!" 

If  she  expected  pity — was  she  to  get  it  thus? 
Duplessis  had  no  pity  to  bestow. 

"It's  not  the  first  time  we  have  met  here,  is  it?" 
Extraordinary,  that  to  his  screwing  her  nerves  re- 
sponded so  faithfully. 

"There  should  never  have  been  a  time,"  she  said, 
and  meant  it.  It  was  part  of  his  luxury  to  be  sure 
that  she  felt  in  the  wrong. 


30 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


^'Why  not?"  he  probed  her  airily.  ^'If  two  people 
want  to  talk  to  each  other,  what  else  are  they  to  do  ? 
And  there's  no  doubt  about  our  needs,  I  suppose?" 

She  had  nothing  to  say  to  that — she  was  discre- 
tion itself;  but  the  effect  of  her  frugality  was  to 
bring  him  closer  to  where  she  sat. 

"Do  you  care  to  keep  my  book?" — and  before 
she  could  answer — "Well,  then,  keep  it,"  he  said. 
"I'll  come  up  to-morrow  and  write  your  name  in  it, 
and  mine  too.  Would  you  like  that?  Tell  me, 
child." 

But  as  she  hung  her  head  and  had  no  words,  he 
had  to  tell  himself.  His  arm  went  about  her;  he 
could  feel  her  heart.  He  drew  her  to  him,  and  her 
head  lay  on  his  breast.  "That's  well,"  he  said, 
"that's  as  it  should  always  be.  You  are  made  to  be 
captured." 

He  had  what  he  wanted  of  her  after  that,  that 
sense  of  fluttering  under  the  hand,  of  throbbing  re- 
sponse to  stroking  phrases  of  which  an  epicure  of 
the  sort  is  never  weary.  With  power  grew  the  lust  of 
power;  if  he  could  have  made  her  see  white  black  it 
would  have  gratified  him.  He  told  her  that  he  must 
soon  go  to  London,  and  made  her  lie  the  closer;  he 
told  her  that  he  loved  her,  and  made  her  sigh  and 
cling.  He  told  her  that  she  was  that  which  indeed 
she  was  not — a  lover,  his  "little  lover" — and  felt  the 
sweet  flattery  steal  over  her  when  she  thrilled  to  it 
as  the  earth  to  a  beam  of  the  sun.  Ravished  by  the 
thought  of  what  he  had  to  his  hand,  he  pressed  her, 
and  bent  over  her  where  she  crouched.    "Mary,"  he 


MR.  DUPLESSIS  PREVARICATES  31 

whispered  as  he  stooped.  "No,  no,"  she  said,  and 
put  up  her  Hps.  That  was  the  way  of  it,  the  saying 
and  doing  not  without  a  pathetic  simpHcity,  rehshed 
by  him  to  the  full. 

Exquisite  little  triumph !  which  he  was  too  wise  to 
repeat.  He  spent  another  twenty  minutes  discours- 
ing of  himself,  his  works,  and  plans.  Believing  her 
to  be  interested — as  he  was  himself — he  became  ex- 
tremely kind,  forgot  to  be  jealous  of  John  Germain's 
notice,  forgot  to  require  or  exact  anything  from  her, 
forgot  even  to  be  rude.  Really,  he  parted  from  her 
with  more  politeness  than  he  would  have  shown  to 
one  of  his  own  class — say,  to  Miss  de  Speyne.  He 
sought  no  more  favours.  "I  shall  see  you  in  the 
distance  to-morrow,  perhaps.  I  play  cricket  for 
Soames — I  think  he  wants  me.  I  don't  forget  the 
book,  you  may  be  sure.    Good  night." 

It  was  nine  o'clock  before  he  reached  his  mother's 
house,  and  by  that  time  Miss  Middleham's  person 
and  his  pleasure  in  it  were  absorbed  into  the  vague 
physical  comfort  which  a  healthy  young  man  feels 
in  changing  his  clothes.  They  gave  a  zest  to  his 
bath  and  clean  linen,  quickened  his  brains,  and 
strung  him  to  activity  of  a  sort.  He  sketched  out  an 
article  for  the  weekly  review  which  helped  to  support 
him,  chaffed  Soames,  and  comfortably  dressed  him- 
self for  the  Rectory.  There,  as  we  know,  he  prevari- 
cated, but  there  also  he  received  some  impressions 
which  caused  the  image  of  Mary  Middleham  to  visit 
him  in  the  watches  of  the  night. 

He  played  with  the  thought  of  her,  as  she  now 


32  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

appeared  to  him.  A  hint  was  enough;  she  was  no 
saint,  he  had  told  her;  and  he  knew  that,  for  his  pur- 
poses, she  was  all  the  better  for  that.  Old  Germain 
was  clearly  a  victim — old  Germain,  of  all  men  pos- 
sible! How  she  attracted  men — ^with  her  pallor, 
and  heavy  lids,  and  those  peering,  looming,  speaking 
eyes  beneath  them.  What  did  she  want  of  them? 
Love,  love,  and  more  love — insatiable,  was  she — and 
unappeasable?  A  small,  secret,  pale,  and  careworn 
little  huntress;  hunting  to  be  hunted,  never  caught 
and  never  catching.  Strange!  But  there  were 
women  like  that,  nympholepts — and  wherein  lay 
their  charm  for  men  ?  Oh,  well,  he  knew.  He  ought 
to  know.  And  Germain — old  Germain — great 
Heaven!  A  little  Venus — Venus  toute  entiere  .  .  . 
and  raised  in  a  suburb,  earning  her  bread  as  a  nur- 
sery-governess !  Stuff  for  a  sonnet  here !  He  laughed, 
and  sketched  it  by  the  open  window. 

The  thought  was  good.  It  pleased,  excited  him, 
kept  him  wakeful.  A  cigar  into  the  still  dark  seemed 
reasonable. 

She  was  charming.  Her  transparency  was  charm- 
ing, which  made  it  so  easy  to  see  her  little  shifts  and 
designs;  the  casting  of  her  home-made  nets,  and 
setting  of  her  primitive  snares.  She  betrayed  her  need 
so  simply.  When  once  you  had  her  confidence  there 
were  no  more  drawbacks,  no  reticences.  By  George, 
she  was  as  simply  pagan  as  a  South  Sea  Islander; 
not  a  stitch  on  her — and  a  scarlet  flower  between  her 
teeth.  One  might  drown  one's  self  in  love — for  a 
season — if  one  were  a  fool.    But  one  was  not,  you  see. 


MR.  DUPLESSIS  PREVARICATES  ;^^ 

This  simple  creature,  this  little  Suburban  Venus, 
showed  such  extraordinary  aptitude  for  the  rarer 
thing,  was  so  susceptible  to  the  finer  shades  of  the 
business,  that  one  would  need  be  a  tearing  fool  if  he 
— No,  and  it  would  be  a  shame.  He  would  never  do 
that.  Better  on  all  accounts  to  be  free — better  not 
commit  one^s  self.  She  would  always  be  there,  could 
be  counted  upon.    He  knew  women,  he  told  himself. 

They  will  wait  for  you — wait  for  ever,  helped  on 
by  a  little  kindness.  It's  not  love  they  want  from  you 
— they  have  more  than  enough  of  that  themselves; 
it's  tenderness,  once  the  imagination  is  really  struck. 
She!  Oh,  there  was  no  doubt  about  her.  She  was 
his  for  all  time,  sensitive,  flushing,  and  paling  creat- 
ure, alternately  too  bold  and  too  coy.  Bold  when  she 
ought  not — coy  when  she  need  not;  these  were 
flaws,  but  he  protested  that  they  charmed  him. 
Flaws  there  must  be;  it  was  not  reasonable  to  sup- 
pose himself  pioneer  in  that  little  thicket;  and,  while 
the  knowledge  must  cheapen,  yet  it  endeared  her  to 
him.  Some  subtle  excitation  of  sense  was  stirred  by 
that.    What  now  ? 

He  probed,  but  gave  over  the  analysis.  "Damn 
it,  I'm  too  curious,"  he  said.  '^Sonnets  don't  come 
this  way.    I  must  compose  her,  not  dissect." 

But  there  was  to  be  no  more  composition  of  son- 
nets. He  had  warped  his  mood,  so  threw  away  his 
cigar,  and  went  to  bed. 


IV 

A  MISS  AND  A  CATCH 

As  for  Mr.  Germain,  whatever  his  nightly  medita- 
tions or  dreams  may  have  been,  he  was  as  good  as 
his  word,  and  stoutly  took  the  field  on  the  morrow 
when  Misperton  Brand,  having  lost  the  toss,  spread 
itself  over  the  greensward  under  Mr.  Soames's  eye 
and  imperative  hand.  Mr.  Soames  was  a  bowler 
and  desperately  in  earnest;  to  see  him  marshal  his 
field  was  a  study  in  statesmanship.  Knowledge  of 
men  went  to  it.  'Xan  you  throw?"  he  had  asked 
the  stately  gentleman  who  had  somehow  to  be  ac-^ 
counted  for;  and  when  Mr.  Germain  replied  that  he 
would  do  his  best  to  oblige  him — "  Verhum  sap^^^  he 
said  afterwards  to  Duplessis,  "I  knew  what  that 
meant  all  right,  and  put  him  cover.  He  only  missed 
two  catches,  you  know,  and  one  of  'em  was  old 
Blacklock  who  simply  has  to  make  a  run.  I  don't 
call  that  so  bad!" 

The  game  was  played  in  the  Rectory  field,  where 
the  tent  and  trestle-tables,  and  in  truth  some  of  the 
baked  meats  of  a  recent  festival  did  duty  for  to-day. 
Behind  the  railings,  as  before,  sat  Mrs.  James  and 
her  Cantacutes.    Miss  de  Speyne  was  not  there,  but 

34 


A  MISS  AND  A  CATCH  35 

Mrs.  Duplessis  was — a  carefully  preserved  lady, 
handsome  and  fatigued.  On  the  further  side  of  the 
field  were  benches,  and  here  also  spectators  clustered 
— farmers'  ladies,  the  doctor  and  his  wife,  Mr. 
Nunn,  the  retired  solicitor,  who  lived  at  The  Sanct- 
uary and  employed  Miss  Middleham  to  look  after 
his  children ;  young  Perivale,  the  auctioneer's  son, 
from  Townham,  the  Misses  Finch,  of  Stockfield 
Peverel,  the  Misses  Wake;  and  Mary  Middleham 
was  undoubtedly  there,  with  white  sunshade,  her 
young  charges  about  her,  or  running  from  her  to 
papa  and  back  as  needs  might  be.  And  to  Miss 
Middleham  it  undoubtedly  was  that  Mr.  Germain, 
on  an  occasion  of  attempting  to  retrieve  a  slashing 
cut  by  the  butcher's  man — and  fruitlessly,  seeing  he 
was  outpaced  by  the  second  gardener  from  the 
Rectory — paid  the  distinction  of  a  salute  before  he 
returned  leisurely  to  the  fray. 

She  had  been  standing  with  a  group  of  acquaint- 
ances, of  whom  Miss  Kitty  Wake,  Miss  Sally  Wake, 
and  Miss  Letty  Wake — all  of  Whiteacre  Farm — 
formed  three,  and  young  Perivale  a  fourth.  Upon 
these  young  people  the  courtesy  smote  like  a  puff  of 
wind.  Perivale  blinked,  and  ^'Gracious!  Who's 
that?"  escaped  Miss  Sally,  and  was  caught  and  ex- 
pounded by  her  sister  Kitty.  *^  Stupid.  It's  Mr. 
Germain,  the  Rector's  brother." 

*'Then  he  bowed  to  you,  Mary,"  said  Miss  Sally, 
and,  as  Mary  blushed,  young  Perivale  ground  his 
heel  into  a  dandelion. 

''I  don't  wonder,"  said  this  youth,  whose  com- 


36  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

plaint  was  not  hard  to  diagnose;  but  the  compliment 
was  ignored  by  the  Misses  Wake„ 

*^  Whatever  makes  him  play  village  cricket  ?  Why, 
his  lordship  never  does,  nor  the  Rector — and  Mr. 
Germain  could  buy  up  the  pair  of  them,  I  hear. 
Don't  you  call  it  singular,  Mr.  Perivale?    I  do.'' 

^^ Doesn't  make  much  of  it,  does  he?"  says  Peri- 
vale, drily. 

*'No,  certainly  not.  Why  should  he?  An  old 
gentleman  like  that!" 

Friendship  required  a  protest,  and  so  Miss  Kitty 
cried,  "Oh,  Sally,  he's  not  a  bit  old!"  Mary's  cor- 
roboration being  called  for,  she  said  that  she  should 
not  call  him  old. 

"Well,  whatever  he  is,  he's  very  polite.  That  bow 
of  his!  My  dear,  you  might  have  been  Miss  de 
Speyne!  However  did  he  know  it  was  you,  at  this 
distance?" 

"Perhaps  he  took  his  hat  off  to  you,  Sally,"  Mary 
said,  but  Miss  Sally  would  have  none  of  that. 

"He  looks  straight  at  you,  as  if  he  knew  you  by 
heart,  and  then  stiffens  himself,  and  off  with  his 
hat.  Cricket!  He's  no  cricketer — but  he's  a  gen- 
tleman." 

So  much  all  must  admit.  Mary,  mildly  elated, 
had  no  objection  to  further  inquiries.  The  former 
encounter,  Mr.  Germain's  deliberate  advance  into 
the  school- treat :  these  wonders  were  revealed,  rolled 
on  the  tongue,  absorbed.  Young  Mr.  Perivale  took 
a  stroll  and  fiercely,  in  the  course  of  it,  asked  a  small 
boy  what  he  was  looking  at,  hey?    But  more  won- 


A  MISS  AND   A  CATCH  37 

ders  were  to  come.  Mr.  Germain  refreshed  himself 
with  the  players,  during  the  tea  interval,  introduced 
himself  to  Mr.  Nunn,  of  The  Sanctuary,  patted  the 
heads  of  his  brood,  and  meeting  Miss  Middleham  by 
the  trestle-table,  shook  hands  with  her  and  held  her 
in  talk.  He  deprecated  his  cricket  with  simplicity. 
*^I  reflect  that  it  is  five-and- twenty  years  since  I 
chased  a  cricket  ball;  but  you  may  see  the  force  of 
your  example,  Miss  Middleham.  Had  you  not  in- 
spired me  to  effort  the  other  day  I  should  hardly 
have  embarked  upon  to-day's  adventure." 

She  was  prettily  confused — her  friends'  eyes  upon 
her;  but  he  ambled  on  in  his  kindly  way. 

'^I  put  myself  in  the  hands  of  my  friend  Mr. 
Soames.  I  was  sure  of  his  charitable  discretion. 
Therefore,  when  he  asked  me  whether  I  could  do 
this  or  that,  I  did  not  tell  him  the  facts,  because  I  did 
not  know  them  and  was  so  confident  that  he  did. 
I  said  that  I  should  be  happy  to  serve  him,  which 
was  perfectly  true.  I  based  myself  upon  a  famous 
French  exemplar.  You  know  the  anecdote  ?  A  gen- 
tleman of  that  nation  was  asked  whether  he  could  take 
the  violin  part  in  a  quartette.  He  said  that  he  did 
not  know,  but  that  he  would  try.  One  may  admire 
his  courage." 

Miss  Middleham  was  in  this  difficulty,  that  she 
did  not  know  whether  the  anecdote  was  amusing  or 
not.  '^I  suppose  that  he  was  not  sure  of  the  part," 
she  said. 

"No,"  Mr.  Germain  corrected  her;  "he  meant 
that  he  did  not  know  how  to  play  the  violin."    Then 


^8  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

she  laughed,  more  to  cover  her  confusion  than  be- 
cause she  was  tickled. 

'^I  like  his  attitude  of  mind,  I  must  say,''  Mr.  Ger- 
main continued,  talking  in  the  air.  ''The  sonata 
doubtless  mattered  as  little  as  this  cricket  match, 
but  neighbourliness  is  the  great  thing.  We  have  too 
little  of  that  in  England.  We  segregate  too  willingly 
I  fear.  I  have  no  notion  of — I  beg  your  pardon. 
While  I  have  no  notions,  you  have  no  tea.  Pray 
allow  me  to  get  you  some." 

He  was  a  long  time  on  this  errand — for  short  sight 
and  a  complete  absence  of  assertion  do  not  help  one 
to  tea  in  a  crowd;  but  nobody  dare  engage  Miss 
Middleham  while  she  stood  there,  so  to  speak,  ear- 
marked for  the  great  man's.  Mr.  Nunn,  her  em- 
ployer, kept  his  flock  carefully  about  him ;  Duplessis 
was  over  the  railings  in  the  Rectory  garden;  Mr. 
Soames  was  exercising  the  hospitalities  due  from  a 
captain  to  his  rival.  The  Perivales,  Wakes,  Finches, 
could  but  look  on  respectfully.    That  they  did. 

Her  cup  of  tea,  her  plate  of  bread  and  butter  were 
handed  to  her  with  another  fine  bow ;  but  even  then 
her  cavalier  did  not  consider  himself  discharged. 
He  stood  to  his  post,  tall,  unperturbed,  using  his 
pince-nez  to  observe  with  gentle  interest  the  audience 
which  stood  about,  not  for  a  single  moment  realizing 
that  it  was  an  audience  indeed.  But  as  he  talked  his 
amiable  commonplaces,  he  was  very  conscious  of  the 
young  woman,  object  of  his  attentions;  little  escaped 
him  there.  It  was  evident  to  him  that  she  was 
pleased,   softly,   quietly   thrilled   by   them;    and   it 


A  MISS   AND  A  CATCH  39 

gratified  him  extremely  to  feel  that  he  could  confer 
pleasure  upon  her  while  he  took  his  own.  Pleasure, 
you  see,  costs  nothing,  therefore  it  is  priceless.  It 
cannot  be  bought,  and  yet  can  only  be  got  by  giving. 
The  distinction  seemed  to  him  material,  but  he  could 
not  remember  to  have  remarked  it  until  the  other 
day,  when  Lady  Cantacute — a  kind  woman — by  a 
trivial  remark  had  made  this  child  forget  her  wari- 
ness and  smile  enchantingly. 

Since  that  moment  he  had  pursued  the  thought, 
and  verified  it.  He  was  verifying  it  now;  there  was 
no  possible  doubt  that  he  was  giving  and  taking 
pleasure.  Had  there  been  any — of  this  you  may  be 
sure — he  would  have  known  it;  he  was  sensitive  in 
such  matters.  He  would  have  retired  with  a  fine 
bow,  and  resumed  his  isolation  and  his  dreams,  the 
nursing  of  his  secret  fire.  I  shall  have  described  Mr. 
Germain  ill  if  I  do  not  make  it  plain  that  he  was  per- 
fectly honest,  simple,  very  solemn,  rather  dull,  a  gen- 
tleman from  the  bone  outwards.  Miss  Sally  was  quite 
right  there.  It  was,  I  am  sure,  rather  his  education 
than  his  breeding  which  made  him  look  upon  his 
world,  his  village,  native  land,  the  continent  he  hap- 
pened to  be  visiting  as  either  in  his  employment  (like 
his  valet)  or  a  negligible  quantity.  The  same  straight- 
ness  of  categories,  with  an  offensive  twist,  has  been 
observed  in  Mr.  Duplessis  and  is  common  to  gen- 
tlemen by  inheritance.  Mr.  Germain  had  that  sick- 
ness mildly,  but  unmistakably.  Take  the  weather. 
If  the  day  was  fine,  he  was  not  insensible  to  that :  he 
wore  white  spats  and  took  abroad  a  silver-headed 


40  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

cane;  he  snuffed  the  genial  gale,  said.Ha!  and  per- 
haps gave  sixpence  to  a  little  boy.  All  was  as  it 
should  be;  he  was  excellently  served.  But  if  the 
morn  broke  stormily,  with  a  wailing,  wet,  west  wind, 
with  scudding  rain  or  whirling  snow,  all  that  escaped 
his  lips  was  "Provoking!"  He  ordered  the  brough- 
am. And  you  may  think  that,  in  effect,  these  things 
are  what  any  gentleman  may  do,  and  yet  not  be  ex- 
actly right.  Other  gentlemen  may  damn  the  rain; 
but  Mr.  Germain,  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger, 
gave  nature  a  month's  warning.  If  there  is  offence 
to  Miss  Mary  Middleham  in  likening  her  to  the 
weather,  I  am  sorry  for  it.  There's  no  doubt  that 
that  is  how  she  stood  in  Mr.  Germain's  regard, 
though  he  would  have  gone  to  the  stake  denying  it. 

No  misgiving,  therefore,  disturbed  his  serenity 
while  he  talked  to  her  of  the  art  of  teaching,  which 
he  understood  she  practised.  It  was  truly,  he 
thought,  one  of  the  great  arts,  to  give  it  no  prouder 
title.  What  more  wonderful  material  could  be  put 
under  the  hands  of  any  artist  than  humanity  ?  More 
plastic  than  paint,  more  durable  than  the  potter's  clay 
or  the  builder's  stone,  more  subtly  responsive  than 
the  vibrations  with  which  the  musician  must  cope. 
He  had  been  reading  the  other  day  a  very  excellent 
Life  of  Vittorino  da  Feltre,  a  great  Italian  educa- 
tionist. He  should  he  happy  to  send  it  to  Miss  Mid- 
dleham. The  man  was  as  proud  as  a  prince;  and  to 
the  credit  of  the  princes  of  Italy  it  must  be  said  that 
he  was  treated  as  their  peer.  A  remarkable  career, 
full  of  suggestion. 


A  MISS   AND   A   CATCH  41 

A  certain  scare,  faintly  discernible  in  Miss  Mid- 
dleham's  open  eyes,  recalled  him  from  so  wide  a  cast. 
He  told  her  that  he  had  been  renewing  acquaintance 
with  Mr.  Nunn — "a  worthy  friend  of  some  years' 
standing" — and  had  received  that  gentleman's  testi- 
mony to  her  value,  to  the  affection  which  all  his  chil- 
dren had  for  her.  He  had  a  great  respect  for  Mr. 
Nunn — a  widower  with  six  young  children.  ^'I," 
said  he,  '^am  a  widower — but  yet  I  can  envy  Mr. 
Nunn.  I  am  childless  and  much  alone.  You  are 
fond  of  children.  Miss  Middleham?" 

She  owned  to  that  gladly.  ^^I  was  sure  of  it,"  he 
said.  "You  betrayed  yourself  at  the  school- treat. 
Not  so  much  by  what  you  did — though  you  worked 
nobly — as  by  what  was  done  to  you.  I  watched  the 
children;  they  could  not  let  you  alone.  They  must 
touch  you — children  express  themselves  by  their  an- 
tenncB.    Again  I  envy  you,  Miss  Middleham." 

At  this  point  Mr.  Soames  most  happily,  if  abruptly, 
intervened.  We  were  to  go  in.  Mr.  Germain 
started,  ha'd  for  his  mental  balance,  poised  so  for  an 
uncertain  moment,  and  then  broke  away  as  desired. 
**My  stout  commander!  Ha,  yes.  I  am  ready. 
Lead,  leader,  and  I  follow."  He  bov/ed  to  his  late 
captive,  left  her  rosily  confused,  and  bent  himself  to 
his  duty  in  the  field. 

He  faced  the  bowling  of  the  lower  end,  with  care- 
fully adjusted  glasses  and  a  resolute  chin.  He  out- 
lived four  balls,  and  actually  hit  two  of  them,  but 
forgot  to  run  the  first — to  the  discomfiture  of  Wilcox, 
the  saddler,  who  did  run  for  it,  and  lost  his  wicket. 


42  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

The  second  he  ran  when  he  should  not,  though 
Soames's  hand  and  ''No!  No!"  pealed  coming  disas- 
ter; and  then  he  walked  back  to  the  tent,  and  thence 
to  the  Rectory  garden,  while  Duplessis,  joining 
Soames,  made  vigourous  practice  of  the  Cromberton 
bowling.  His  enthusiasm  held  out  to  the  end;  he 
marked  every  ball,  cheered  every  notch.  He  was 
impartial — the  fall  of  Soames's  wicket  received  his 
plaudits,  the  hundred  on  the  telegraph  got  no  more. 
For  so  sedate  a  personage  he  was  in  great  spirits ;  he 
rallied  the  Rector  on  his  timidity,  urged  Lord  Canta- 
cute  to  put  James  to  the  blush.  He  went  so  far, 
even,  as  to  congratulate  Duplessis  upon  his  76  not 
out ;  and  when  all  was  over  reverted  more  than  once 
during  a  leisurely  stroll  among  the  box-edged  walks 
to  the  pleasures  of  village  life.  He  deplored  his 
''great,  shut-up  Southover."  We  were  too  fond  of 
our  fenced  enclosures.  According  to  Tacitus  the 
trick  must  be  inveterate,  but  just  now  there  were 
signs  of  its  losing  hold.  Our  American  kindred 
would  have  none  of  it — a  park-pale,  even  a  garden 
hedge  was  an  offence  against  public  conscience  over 
there.  The  convenience  of  appartements  was  gain- 
ing upon  London,  and  in  the  country  allotments  were 
recalling  the  old  days  of  the  common  fields.  Well, 
he  was  good  Liberal  enough  to  welcome  the  breaking 
down  of  our  grudging  defences.  Why  should  an 
Englishman's  house  be  his  castle,  while  England, 
surrounded  by  its  briny  moat,  was  sufficient  castle 
for  us  all?  Merry  England!  England  might  be 
merry  enough  if  Englishmen  could  forget  themselves, 


A  MISS  AND  A  CATCH  43 

and  remember  each  other.  Mrs.  James  did  not 
agree  with  him,  and  shortly  said  so,  but  Lord  Canta- 
cute,  who  may  have  seen  further  than  she  cared  to 
look,  said  it  would  never  do.  "It's  been  tried  over 
and  over  again,  you  know.  You  can't  mix  people 
up,  because  they  won't  meet  you.  If  you  go  and 
make  a  fuss  with  a  fellow,  you'll  gratify  him,  you 
know;  but  what  will  he  do?  Will  he  make  a  fuss 
with  his  next-door  neighbour?  Not  he!  He'll  kick 
him.  You've  made  him  feel  that  he's  somebody, 
d'you  see  ?  So  he  can  afford  himself  the  luxury.  No, 
no,  Germain.  I  wish  you  were  right — you  ought  to 
be — but  you're  not." 

^'There's  a  queer  kind  of  fellow,"  his  lordship 
went  on,  while  Mr.  Germain  seemed  to  be  holding 
his  opinion  firmly  in  his  clasped  hands  behind  his 
back,  "who  lives  in  a  tilt-cart  and  mends  kettles 
when  the  fancy  takes  him.  Paints  a  good  picture, 
too,  and  has  plenty  to  say  for  himself.  Hertha  found 
him  at  that  the  other  day,  out  riding — but  the  kettles 
were  not  far  off,  and  the  sawder  bubbling  in  a  pot  on 
a  fire.  From  what  she  says,  he's  come  as  near  to 
your  standard  as  any  one.  No  hedges  there.  And 
he's  a  gentleman,  mind  you.  Hertha  says  that's  clear. 
But  look  at  the  difference.  He  steps  down  you  see. 
You  are  for  pulling  'em  up.    That  don't  do,  as  I  say." 

Mr.  Germain  explained  himself.  "I  deny  the 
imputation;  I  cannot  admit  the  possibility.  Pulling 
up,  my  dear  Cantacute !  How  can  you  pull  up,  when 
there  is  no  eminence  ?  I  spoke  of  enclosures,  of  arti- 
ficial barriers — a  very  different  matter." 


44  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"Same  thing,"  said  my  lord.  "We  didn't  plant 
'em.    They  grew.'' 

"I  met  to-day  again,"  said  Mr.  Germain,  point- 
edly to  his  sister-in-law,  "your  Miss  Middleham — 
a  charming  girl — with  whom  I  gave  myself  the 
pleasure  of  some  little  talk  during  the  interval  allowed 
me  by  my  stalwart  friend  Soames.  I  became  a 
hedge-breaker,  my  dear  Constantia,  deliberately" — 
Lord  Cantacute's  shrewd  eye  being  upon  him,  he 
turned  to  the  attack — "and  I  can  assure  you  that  I 
found  her  in  every  respect  worthy  of  my  homage,  in 
every  respect.    We  discussed  her  art " 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  lord. 

"The  art  of  teaching,  my  dear  friend.  I  main- 
tained that  it  was  the  finest  art — and  Miss  Middle- 
ham  quite  agreed  with  me." 

Mrs.  James  asked  him  tartly  what  else  Mary  Mid- 
dleham could  have  done,  or  been  supposed  to  do. 
Lord  Cantacute  contented  himself  by  saying  that  he 
believed  she  was  a  nice  young  woman. 

"There  are,  at  any  rate,  no  hedges  about  her," 
said  Mrs.  James. 


V 

HOW  TO  BREAK  A  HEDGE 

Mr.  John  Germain,  of  Southover  House,  in  Berk- 
shire— since  it  is  time  to  be  particular  about  him — 
was  five  years  older  than  his  brother — a  man  of  fifty, 
of  habits  as  settled  as  his  income,  and  like  his  income, 
too,  mostly  in  land.  Yet  he  had  literary  tastes,  a  fine 
library,  for  instance,  of  which  the  nucleus  only  had 
been  inherited,  and  the  rest  selected,  bound,  and 
mostly  read  by  himself.  He  was  said  to  have  corre- 
sponded with  the  late  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer,  and 
when  he  was  in  town  invariably  to  lunch  at  the 
Athenaeum,  sometimes  in  the  company  of  that  phi- 
losopher. In  person  he  was  tall,  distinguished,  very 
erect,  very  lean,  near-sighted,  impassive,  and  leisurely 
in  his  movements.  One  could  not  well  imagine  him 
running  for  a  train — and  indeed  the  appointments  of 
his  household  service  must  have  precluded  the  possi- 
bility. His  coachman  had  been  with  him  five-and- 
twenty  years,  his  butler  thirty,  and  the  rest  to  cor- 
respond. I  believe  there  was  not  an  upper  servant 
in  his  employ  who  had  not  either  seen  him  grow  up 
or  been  so  seen  by  himself.  He  lived  mostly  in  the 
country,  upon  his  estate,  and  there  fulfilled  its  duties 

45 


46  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

as  he  conceived  them  to  be — was  Chairman  of  Quar- 
ter Sessions,  Deputy-Lieutenant,  had  been  Sheriff, 
was  Chainnan  of  the  Board  of  Guardians.  At  these 
things  he  worked,  to  lesser  incumbencies  he  stooped, 
to  meet  them  halfway  and  no  more — as  if  he  depre- 
cated the  fashion  which  insisted  on  them.  Thus  he 
was  patron  of  sport  rather  than  sportsman,  subscribed 
liberally  to  the  hounds,  but  never  hunted,  offered 
excellent  shooting  to  his  county,  but  never  handled 
a  gun.  A  very  dignified  man — with  his  high,  fastidi- 
ous face — you  had  to  look  hard  to  discern  the  char- 
acter he  was.  He  masked  his  features  as  he  subdued 
his  movements  to  express  deliberately  measured 
advance;  and  yet,  in  his  own  way  and  within  his 
own  limits,  he  had  never  failed  of  having  what  he 
wanted,  as  he  wanted  it.  And  if  he  had  to  pay,  as 
we  mostly  do,  he  paid  without  turning  a  visible 
hair.  I  say  that  with  the  remembrance  of  his  mar- 
riage to  Lady  Di  Wymondesley  in  my  mind. 

That  had,  at  first,  seemed  a  stroke  of  Fortune 
with  which  he  was  not  to  cope.  He  had  married 
her — when  she  was  the  fashion  of  the  day,  the  day's 
last  expression — early  in  life,  so  soon  as  he  had  gone 
down  from  Cambridge  and  entered  upon  his  inheri- 
tance. She  had  brought  him  little  money — but  he 
wanted  none  of  her  money;  he  wanted  her,  as  every 
enthusiast  for  the  ideal  then  did.  A  beautiful,  hag- 
gard, swift,  violent  creature,  tearing  life  to  tatters 
that  she  might  find  some  excitement  in  the  lining, 
there  came  a  year  when  Clytemnestra  threatened  to 
be  her  proper  name — that  year  when  her  husband 


HOW  TO   BREAK  A  HEDGE  47 

returned  from  a  solitary  tour  in  Palestine,  Syria, 
and  the  Trojan  plain,  and  when  ^gisthus,  they  say, 
had  not  been  wanting,  to  make  the  trio  of  them. 
But  he,  this  immovable,  triple-armoured  man  of 
thirty — he  was  no  more — had  shown  what  his  fibre 
was  when  he  had  lived  ^Egisthus  down,  lived  him 
out  of  Berks,  out  of  his  clubs,  out  of  London,  out  of 
England,  and  then  had  set  himself  to  work  to  live 
the  devil  out  of  his  Clytemnestra.  What  he  suffered 
will  never  be  known,  for  he  took  good  care  of  that; 
and  what  she  may  have  suffered  can  hardly  be 
guessed,  for  she  talked  too  much  and  too  bitterly  to 
be  believed .  There's  no  doubt  that  these  were  terrible 
years;  there  were  fifteen  of  them,  and  of  every  one 
you  would  have  sworn  it  must  be  the  last.  Providence 
finally  justified  that  wonderful  grit  in  the  man — that 
panoply  of  esteem  which  no  sword  could  bite  on — 
by  breaking  Lady  Di's  back  in  the  hunting-field. 

He  had  been  forty  when  that  crowning  mercy 
came  to  him,  and  had  spent  the  ten  following  years 
in  getting  his  affairs  into  order.  Changing  out- 
wardly none  of  his  habits,  such  as  his  yearly  visit  to 
London,  his  yearly  visit  to  Misperton  Rectory,  he 
was  none  the  less  conscious  of  a  departed  zest;  his 
panoply  was  frayed  if  not  rent;  and  wherever  he 
was  during  those  ten  orderly  years  carried  his  hope 
about  with  him — a  treasured,  if  dim,  a  real,  if  unde- 
fined, presence.  He  called  it  Hestia,  and  wrote 
verses  about  it  in  secret;  he  had  a  positive  taste  for 
certain  forms  of  poetry^ — the  Court  pastoral,  the 
shepherd-in-satin,  beribboned  lamb  sort  of  poetry — 


48  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

but  not  a  soul  knew  that,  not  even  his  butler.  Hestia 
was  not  a  woman-r-at  least,  she  had  no  members ;  she 
appeared  in  his  verses  unwooing  and  unwooed.  She 
was,  rather,  the  vision  of  an  Influence;  she  was  an 
Aura,  a  rhythm,  a  tone.  She  involved,  implied,  a  do- 
mestic calm  which  had  never  been  his,  though 
Southover's  walls  were  fair  and  many;  she  was  a 
melodious  beat  added  to  his  ordered  goings;  at  her 
touch  the  clockwork  of  Southover  chimed  silvern 
instead  of  steely.  The  hope  of  this  Hestia,  if  I  may 
say  so,  he  carried  always  about  with  him  at  the  half- 
cock.  It  was  the  secret  of  his  life.  You  would  never 
have  suspected  him  of  a  musical  ear;  yet  there  it 
was.  You  would  have  said  that  any  spring  of  poetry 
in  him  would  have  been  sealed  at  the  fount  by  that 
panoply  which  could  turn  a  sword-edge — but  no! 
The  eye  of  such  a  man  may  never  betray  its  content 
and  his  heart  be  incapable  of  voicing  its  desire.  But 
what  heart  covets  eye  will  hold,  and  ear  strain  after. 
The  man  will  burn  within  and  make  no  sign — to 
fellow  man. 

And  now,  the  stateliest  hedge-breaker  that  ever, 
surely,  wrought  in  Somerset,  Mr.  Germain  proceeded 
on  his  declared  purpose  with  an  absence  of  parade 
which,  while  it  robbed  it  of  all  sting,  must  also  have 
threatened  its  value.  Unless  you  shout  Liberty  as 
you  trample  barriers  down,  the  prisoners  may  well 
remain  within  their  pinfolds.  There  was  no  shouting 
in  Misperton  Brand.  It  was  Mr.  Germain's  habit 
to  take  breakfast  in  his  own  room  and  keep  a  solitary 
morning.    He  was  not  visible  to  the  Rectory  party 


HOW  TO   BREAK  A  HEDGE  49 

until  luncheon  time;  after  tea  he  was  accustomed 
also  to  withdraw  himself  until  dinner.  During  these 
times  of  seclusion,  as  I  collect,  he  devoted  himself  to 
the  emancipation  of  Miss  Middleham. 

Sobered  as  such  a  young  lady  could  not  fail  to  be 
by  the  unimpeachable  testimony  of  Thursday's  school 
treat  and  Saturday's  cricket,  it  Vs^as  on  the  Monday 
following  that  a  series  of  encounters  began,  which 
struck,  excited,  and  ended  by  enthralling  her.  Walk- 
ing to  her  work  in  the  mornings,  she  must  needs 
overtake  him,  returning  late  in  the  evenings,  behold 
him  strolling  a  few  yards  in  front  of  her.  This  may 
be  done  once  and  be  a  transient  glory,  twice  and  be 
for  remembrance — a  comfort  when  things  go  awry; 
let  it  happen  three  times,  and  you  will  be  frightened. 
After  that  it  may  colour  each  day  beforehand  as  it 
comes.  Miss  Middleham  had  reached  the  stage 
where  her  heart  began  to  beat  as  she  approached  the 
corner  of  Love-lane,  at  the  end  of  which  stood  The 
Sanctuary  behind  its  defences  of  laurela,  white  gates 
and  laurustinus — when  another  shock  was  given  her, 
one  of  those  shocks  which  you  get  when  you  put 
two  and  two  together,  as  the  saying  is.  It  did  not 
take  her  a  second  to  do  the  sum — but  it  had  to  be 
done. 

On  this  occasion  lessons  had  been  rolling  for  an 
hour — long  enough  to  discover  how  hot  it  was  and 
how  interesting  a  bee  in  a  window  could  make  him- 
self; more  than  long  enough  for  Tommy  to  yawn 
and  squeak  his  slate-pencil,  for  Elsie  to  sigh  and  look 
appealingly  at   Miss   Middleham — when   the  door 


50  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

opened  and  papa  appeared,  and  behind  papa,  tall 
and  benevolent,  Mr.  Germain,  the  great  gentleman 
from  the  Rectory. 

At  this  sudden  invasion  of  her  sanctuary.  Miss 
Middleham  rose  startled  in  her  place,  and  her  hand 
unconsciously  sought  her  side.  As  Dian  surprised 
with  her  nymphs  might  have  covered  her  unveiled 
breast,  so  she  her  heart.  At  least,  so  the  visitor  in- 
terpreted the  act.  If  the  children  stared  clear-eyed. 
Miss  Middleham's  fine  eyes  were  misty.  Altogether 
a  pretty  commotion  without  and  within. 

Mr.  Nunn — Mr.  T.  Albert  Nunn,  as  he  was 
pleased  to  sign  himself — was  a  hale,  elderly,  and 
plump  gentleman,  in  colouring  rather  like  a  green- 
house plant,  so  vividly  white  and  feathery  was  he  in 
the  whiskers,  so  fleshily  pink  in  the  cheeks.  He  now 
showed  considerable  elation,  though  modesty  rode 
it,  as  it  were,  on  the  curb. 

"Miss  Middleham — pray  let  me  not  disturb  you. 
Mr.  Germain,  Sir,  our  preceptress,  Miss  Middle- 
ham— who  is  so  kind  as  to  take  charge  of  my  nest- 
lings— ha,  Sir!  my  motherless  babes — '^  As  he 
waved  them  into  acquaintance  with  each  other  Miss 
Middleham  became  deeply  suffused,  but  Mr.  Ger- 
main was  ready  to  help  her. 

''Miss  Middleham  and  I  are  old  acquaintances," 
he  said.  "Indeed,  I  presume  upon  that  at  the  mo- 
ment." He  turned  to  her,  excusing  himself.  "Mr. 
Nunn  assured  me  that  we  should  not  disturb  you, 
and  I  hope  you  will  support  him.  You  know  my 
interest  in  educational  matters " 


HOW  TO   BREAK  A  HEDGE  51 

*'Yes,  Mr.  Germain, '^  she  said,  faintly.  "You 
have  spoken  of  it.'^ 

^'I  thought  it  due  to  you,  when  I  learned  what  an 
honourable  charge  you  profess,  that  you  should  know 
me  an  admirer  of  it  from  afar — unfortunately  from 
afar.  Your  little  pupils,  too,  I  have  met — "  Mr. 
Nunn,  who  had  a  good  ear  for  sentiment,  had  his 
cue. 

'^My  motherless — !  Ha,  Miss  Middleham,  what 
can  we  show  Mr.  Germain — what  have  we  of  inter- 
est ?  My  Gertrude,  now,  writes  a  good  essay — I  have 
heard  you  say  so.    Hey  ? ' ' 

"Very  good,  indeed,  Mr.  Nunn,"  said  Miss  Mid- 
dleham, while  Miss  Gertrude  swallowed  hard. 

"I  should  enjoy  a  sight  of  it  of  all  things, '^  said 
Mr.  Germain ;  so  the  essay  was  produced — in  all  its 
round  and  becapitalled  script,  with  Miss  Middle- 
ham's  corrections  in  red  ink.  "The  Character  of 
John  Lackland,  King  of  England." 

Mr.  Germain  read  between  the  lines,  studied  the 
corrections,  and  mused  as  he  read.  At  the  end,  it 
happened  there  v/as  a  model  essay  in  the  teacher's 
hand,  not  hard  to  discover  as  the  teacher's  composi- 
tion. He  read  this,  too,  and  interpreted  it  in  the 
lis^ht  of  his  vision  of  the  ml.  He  read  into  it  her  con- 
fident,  natural  voice,  saw  behind  it  her  trim  figure, 
her  expressive  eyes  and  softly  rich  colour.  The  entire 
absence  of  anything  remarkable  in  itself  gave  him  no 
dismay.  He  was  not  looking  for  that,  but  for  con- 
firmation of  his  emotions,  for  a  reasoned  basis  to 
them.     It  was  clear  to  him  in  a  moment  that  the 


52  HALFVv^AY  HOUSE 

Kings  of  England  were  counters  in  a  game — a  game, 
to  the  teacher,  only  a  shade  less  dreary,  because 
much  more  familiar,  than  to  her  pupils.  This  was 
what  he  wanted  to  find.  It  corroborated  his  first 
vision:  the  vision  held.  Had  she  shown  talent,  to 
say  nothing  of  genius,  for  her  profession,  he  would 
have  been  greatly  disconcerted.  Handing  the  book 
back,  he  patted  Miss  Gertrude  on  the  head  for  a 
quick  little  pupil,  and  her  beaming  parent  on  the 
back,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  for  possessing  her. 
*^  You  are  happy,  Mr.  Nunn,"  he  said,  "in  your  chil- 
dren's promise,  and  I  am  sure  that  their  instructress 
may  be  satisfied  with  their  performance." 

"You  are  very  good.  Sir,"  replied  Mr.  Nunn. 
"It  is  naturally  gratifying  to  me — highly  gratifying 
— when  a  gentleman  in  your  position  takes  notice  of 
my  little  brood.  Ha!  my  little  seed-plots,  as  I  may 
truly  say.  Miss  Middleham  reports  favourably  of 
progress — steady  progress.  I  hear  that  little  Mar- 
garet's sewing  is  somewhat  remarkable " 

But  Mr.  Germain  did  not  pursue  his  researches, 
having  no  need. 

Heaven  and  Earth !  he  thought,  as  he  had  intended 
all  along  to  think,  were  ever  labours  more  jejune 
compelled  upon  a  fresh  and  budding  young  life? 
Was  ever  yoke  more  galling  laid  upon  yearling  shoul- 
ders ?  To  set  a  being  so  delicate  at  liberty,  there  can 
be  no  hammer  and  pick  laid  to  the  barrier;  nay,  it 
must  be  rather  by  enlarging  from  within.  The  but- 
terfly lies  so  in  a  prison  house,  his  iris  wings  close- 
folded  to  his  sides.    Break  into  the  shell,  you  either 


HOW  TO   BREAK  A  HEDGE  53 

crush  the  filmy  thing,  or  usher  it  untimely  into  a  chill 
world.  No,  no.  Breathe  tenderness,  shed  warmth 
about  the  lovely  prisoner;  it  grows  in  grace  and 
strength  to  free  itself.  Then  be  at  hand  to  see  the 
dawning  of  life,  share  in  the  contemplative  ecstasy  of 
a  God,  rejoice  with  Him  in  a  fair  work — behold  it 
very  good! 

'^What  is  exquisite  here,"  he  told  himself  as  he 
thought  of  Mary  standing  at  her  work,  'Ms  the  bend- 
ing to  the  yoke,  and  the  resiliency,  the  strain  for  re- 
lease which  is  irrepressible  in  so  ardent  and  strong 
a  nature.  I  remember  the  proud  youths  in  the  Pan- 
athenaic  frieze,  the  noble  maidens  bearing  baskets 
on  their  heads.  Obedience,  willingness,  patience  on 
the  curb — can  anything  be  more  beautiful?  You 
ride  a  perfect  horse;  he  throbs  under  your  hand.  A 
touch  will  guide  him,  but  brutality  will  make  a  mad 
thing  of  him.  The  gentle  hand,  the  gentle  hand! 
He  who  is  privileged  enough  to  have  that  in  his  gift, 
within  his  faculty,  is  surely  blessed  above  his  fellows ! 

''And  does  not  that  quality  of  beauty,  indeed,  de- 
pend upon  the  curb?  Can  it  exist,  as  such,  without 
it?  No:  the  head  cannot  bow  so  meekly  without  the 
burden  laid,  the  neck  cannot  spring  until  it  has  been 
bent.  Ah,  but  the  curb  is  wielded  by  the  hand,  and 
must  never  be  in  unwise  or  brutal  employ.  Here 
there  is  not  brutality,  but  a  stupidity  beyond  belief, 
something  horrible  to  me,  and  deeply  touching,  that 
one  so  young,  so  highly  graced,  so  little  advantaged, 
should  be  drudging  to  prepare  for  others  a  lot  no 
better  than  her  own — drudging  without  aptitude, 


54  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

without  reason,  without  hope  to  realize  or  ambition  to 
gratify — desiring  merely  to  live  and  grow  and  be 
happy!  Horrible,  most  horrible.  Surely  so  fair  a 
spirit  should  be  more  thriftily  expended!  Trans- 
plant that  sweet  humour,  that  really  beautiful  sub- 
missiveness  into  a  room  more  gracious,  an  atmos- 
phere more  appreciative,  and  how  could  it  fail  to 
thrive,  to  bear  flower  and  fruit?" 

Flower  and  fruit — ah,  me!  There  leapt  up  in  his 
heart  an  answering  fire,  and  he  cried  to  himself, 
^'Hestia!    The  Hearth!" 


VI 

MISS  MIDDLEHAM  IS  INVITED  TO  CONFIRM  A  VISION 

The  object  of  these  sentimental  and  persistent 
excursions — circular  tours,  in  fact,  since,  however 
far  they  wandered,  whether  to  the  Parthenon  or  to 
the  shrouded  Hestia  of  the  Hearth,  they  always  re- 
turned to  their  starting  place — by  no  means  filled  the 
scene  at  Misperton  Brand,  which,  when  she  crossed 
it  at  all,  approved  or  disapproved  according  to  taste 
and  opportunity.  Lady  Cantacute  had  no  doubt 
but  she  was  a  good  little  soul,  and  young  Peri  vale 
would  confidently  wager  her  a  girl  with  whom  you 
could  have  fun.  Her  pupils  adored  her.  Miss  de 
Speyne  had  not  yet  realized  her  existence.  Tristram 
Duplessis  believed  her  waiting  for  him.  The  Rector 
had  once  called  her  a  sun  child,  it  appears;  and  that 
sounds  like  a  compliment,  but  her  good  looks  were 
denied.  Yet  *^sun  child"  is  apt,  from  a  friendly 
tongue.  Her  colour  was  quick  to  come  and  go;  no 
doubt  she  was  burnt  becomingly  by  the  weather. 
She  had — he  might  have  said — a  dewy  freshness 
upon  her,  rather  the  appearance  of  having  been 
newly  kissed.  No  doubt,  she  had  a  figure,  no  doubt, 
the  hot,  full  eyes  of  the  South.    Here  her  soul,  if  she 

55 


56  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

had  one,  spoke  to  those  who  could  hear.  Excite- 
ment made  her  eyes  to  shine  hke  large  stars,  appre- 
hension opened  them  like  a  hare's.  Reproach  made 
them  loom  upon  you  all  black.  If  you  interested  her, 
they  peered.  They  filled  readily  with  tears,  and 
could  laugh  like  wavelets  in  the  sun.  But  you  can't 
build  a  beauty  upon  eyes  alone,  and  a  beauty  she  had 
no  claim  to  be.  And  yet  she  was  well  finished  off — 
with  small  hands  and  feet,  pointed  fingers,  small 
ears,  quick  nostrils,  a  smooth  throat,  running  from 
dusk  to  ivory  as  the  sun  held  or  fainted  in  his  chase. 
Then  she  had  "pretty  ways" — admitted — and  there's 
enough  title  for  your  sun  child. 

But  the  Rector,  you  see,  liked  her,  while  his  wife 
disapproved  of  her  fundamentally.  Pretty  ways, 
forsooth!  ** She's  a  flirt,  James,  and  I  have  no  pa- 
tience v/ith  Mr.  Soames.  The  Eastward  position  is 
perfectly  harmless,  of  course.  Many  clergymen 
adopt  it — Lord  Victor  for  one.  But  it  was  never 
done  here,  as  you  know  very  well,  until  Mr.  Soames 
discovered  that  he  could  see  the  Sunday-school 
benches  that  way." 

The  Rector  shrugged  with  his  eyebrows.  ^^Scan- 
dalum  magnatum,  my  dear,  and  dire  nonsense  at  that. 
Soames  is  a  good  fellow  with  a  conscience,  and  may 
say  his  creed  in  my  church  to  whatever  wall  he  finds 
helpful." 

Mrs.  James  retorted  that  a  magnet  was  quite  out 
of  place  in  a  church,  and  set  him  gently  chuckling. 
That,  as  she  knew,  was  final  for  the  day;  but  she 
kept  her  eye  steadily  upon  Miss  Middleham,  and 


MISS  MIDDLEHAM   IS   INVITED  57 

had  her  small  rewards.  What  was  not  discoverable 
could  be  guessed  at  by  what  was.  She  lighted  by 
chance  upon  one  crowning  episode  when,  on  a  Sun- 
day afternoon,  she  found  her  cousin  Tristram  de- 
claiming Shelley's  Prometheus  under  the  apple  tree 
in  the  garden  of  Mary's  lodging — not  to  the  apples 
and  birds  of  the  bough,  but  to  the  young  person  her- 
self, snug  in  an  easy  chair,  her  Sunday  pleats  neatly 
disposed,  no  ankle  showing,  to  speak  of,  but — and 
this  did  stamp  a  fatal  air  of  domesticity  upon  the 
whole  exhibition — but  without  a  hat.  This,  if  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  means  the  worst  kind  of  behaviour, 
a  perverted  mind.  Shelley  was  an  atheist,  and  his 
Prometheus  was  probably  subversive  of  every  kind 
of  decency — but  that  is  nothing  beside  the  point  of 
the  hat,  which  might  be  missed  by  any  man,  but  by 
no  woman.  For  consider.  If  a  little  nursery  govern- 
ess were  to  be  read  to  by  the  cousin  of  a  person  of  good 
family — a  young  man  who  might  be  engaged  to  a 
peer's  daughter  by  a  nod  of  the  head — one  might 
think  little  of  it,  had  there  been  evidence  of  its  beijtg 
an  event.  But  there  had  been  none — far  from  that. 
Mrs.  James  knew  her  Misperton  Brand  very  well; 
events  there  were  hailed  by  young  persons  in  their 
best  hats.  Here,  nothing  of  the  kind.  On  the  con- 
trary, there  was  an  every-day  air  about  it  which 
showed  that  the  girl  was  at  home  with  Tristram, 
Tristram  much  at  home  with  the  girl.  That  Tris- 
tram should  be  at  ease  was  nothing;  it  would  have 
been  ridiculous  had  he  not  been — a  nursery  govern- 
ess I    But  was  it  not  disastrous  flippancy — to  say  no 


58  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

harsher  thing — in  Mary  that  she,  too,  could  be  at 
ease ;  hatless,  in  a  rocking  chair ;  not  rocking  herself 
— no,  not  that!  but  able  to  rock  at  any  moment! 
The  enormity  was  reported,  and  the  Rector  said  that 
so  long  as  young  women  wore  their  hats  in  his  church 
he  cared  nothing  what  they  did  with  them  elsewhere. 
He  threatened  to  chuckle,  so  no  more  could  be  said ; 
but  to  Mrs.  James,  what  had  been  dark  surmise  be- 
fore was  now  garishly  plain.    The  girl  was 

But  all  this  takes  us  far  from  the  schoolroom  where 
Miss  Middleham  was  blamelessly  expounding  the 
Plantagenet  Kings  of  England,  or  from  the  shady 
lime-tree  walk  where  Mr.  Germain  was  rhapsodizing 
upon  yokes,  submissiveness,  and  young  necks  re- 
silient. 

He  met  her,  as  had  now  become  his  habit,  on  the 
next  morning,  and  the  next.  The  same  bewildering, 
gentle  monologues  were  delivered — or  he  paced  by 
her  side  without  speaking,  without  constraint  or  any 
sign  that  betrayed  he  was  not  doing  an  every-day 
thing.  He  was  doing  a  thing  which  held  her  spell- 
bound ;  but  shortly  afterwards  he  did  another  which 
made  her  brain  spin.  He  proposed  *'a  little  walk" 
in  the  course  of  that  afternoon — ^^Let  us  say,  at  six 
o'clock,  if  that  would  be  perfectly  agreeable  to  you." 
An  appointment!  It  must  needs  be  agreeable;  per- 
haps it  was.  He  called  for  her  at  her  woodbine- 
covered  lodging,  asked  for  her  by  name,  and  stood 
uncovered  in  the  porch  until  she  appeared ;  and  then 
they  walked  by  field-ways  some  couple  of  miles  in  the 
direction  of  Stockfield  Peverel. 


MISS   MIDDLEHAM   IS   INVITED  59 

Upon  this  occasion  she  was  invited,  if  not  directed, 
to  talk.  It  was  a  Httle  catechism.  Mr.  Germain 
asked  her  of  her  family  and  prospects,  and  she  replied 
readily  enough.  There  was  neither  disguise,  nor 
pretence  about  what  she  had  to  tell  him.  She  was 
what  Mrs.  James  would  have  thought — and  did 
think — frankly  canaille.  Her  father  was  cashier  in 
the  London  and  Suburban  Bank  at  Blackheath,  and 
her  mother  was  alive.  This  Mary  was  the  second 
child  of  a  family  of  six — all  girls.  Jane — "We  call 
her  Jinny" — was  the  eldest,  and  a  typewriter  in  a 
City  office:  "We  shall  never  be  anything  more  than 
we  are  now,  because  we  aren't  clever,  and  are  quite 
poor."  Jinny  was  seven-and- twenty;  then  came 
herself,  Mary  Susan,  twenty-four  years  ago.  A 
hiatus  represented  tv/o  boys  who  had  died  in  infancy 
— "they  mean  more  than  all  of  us  to  Mother" — and 
then  in  succession  four  more  girls,  the  eldest  sixteen 
and  "finishing."  "Ready  to  go  out  in  the  world, 
just  as  I  did."  She  knew  nothing  of  her  father's 
father;  but  had  heard  that  he  had  come  from  the 
West  Country,  Gloucestershire,  she  thought.  Her 
mother's  maiden  name  had  been  Unthank.  Really, 
that  was  all — except  that  she  had  been  much  what 
she  was  now — a  nursery  governess — since  she  was 
seventeen.  "Seven  years — yes,  a  long  time;  but  one 
gets  accustomed  to  it."  He  tried,  but  could  get  no 
more  out  of  her  concerning  herself;  and  he  remarked 
upon  it  that,  so  surely  as  she  began  to  talk  of  her  own 
affairs,  she  compared  them  with  Jinny's  and  allowed 
them  to  fade  out  in  Jinny's  favour.    He  judged  that, 


6o  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

as  a  child,  she  had  been  overshadowed.  Jinny's 
beauty,  accomplishments,  audacity  were  much  upon 
Mary's  tongue.  Jinny  knew  French,  and  could  sing 
French  songs.  She  was  tail — "a  head  taller  than 
me" — not  engaged  to  be  married,  but  able  to  be  so 
whenever  she  chose.  Not  easy  to  please,  however. 
"Father  thinks  a  great  deal  of  Jinny.  We  are  all 
proud  of  her.  Perhaps  you  might  not  admire  her 
style.  Everybody  looks  at  her  in  Blackheath."  Mr. 
Germain  thought  to  himself  that  in  that  case,  he 
should  not  admire  her  style. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  these  details  had  to  be 
digested  under  protest.  They  were  perfectly  inno- 
cent, but  they  did  not  help  the  ideal.  She  was  much 
more  attractive  when  she  was  fluttered  and  whirled 
off  her  feet,  rather  breathless,  with  a  good  deal  of 
colour,  rather  scared — as  she  had  been  at  first. 
Now,  however,  she  was  at  ease,  tripping  by  his  side, 
full  of  the  charms  of  a  dashing  Jinny  at  Blackheath 
— and  it  came  into  his  mind  with  a  pang  that,  at  this 
rate,  she — the  ideal,  first-seen  She — might  disappear 
altogether  behind  that  young  lady's  whisking  skirts. 
This  he  could  not  afford :  his  inquiries  became  more 
personal,  and  she  immediately  more  coy.  There 
came  almost  naturally  into  his  attitude  towards  her 
an  air  of  patronage — tender,  diffident,  very  respect- 
ful patronage,  under  which  she  soon  showed  him  that 
his  interest  in  her  was  moving  her  pleasantly.  A 
man  of  more  experience  than  he — who  had  none — 
would  have  seen  in  a  moment  that  the  attention  of 
the  other  sex  was  indeed  her  supreme  interest,  the 


MISS   MIDDLEHAM   IS   INVITED  6l 

mainspring  of  her  being;  would  have  noticed  that 
every  j&lament  in  her  young  frame  was  sensitive  to 
that.  A  man  of  gallantry  and  expertise  could  have 
played  upon  her  as  on  a  harp.  Mr.  Germain  could 
not  do  this,  but  his  feelings  were  strongly  attracted. 
So  young,  so  simple,  so  ardent  a  creature!  he  said  to 
himself,  and — '^God  be  good  to  all  of  us! — living, 
breathing  delicately,  exquisitely,  daintily  indeed 
before  my  eyes  upon  sixty-five  pounds  a  year!'' 

This  fact  had  truly  taken  his  breath  away.  Sixty- 
five  pounds  a  year — mere  wages — for  the  hire  of  a 
girl  like  a  flower.  "It  was  a  great  rise  for  me,''  she 
had  said.  "I  had  never  expected  to  earn  more  than 
£45 — Jinny  herself  only  gets  a  pound  a  week,  and 
French  is  required  in  her  office.  But  Mr.  Nunn  said 
that  he  would  pay  me  £15  more  than  his  usual  allow- 
ance for  governesses  because  it  would  not  be  con- 
venient to  have  me  in  the  house,  and  I  must  there- 
fore pay  for  a  lodging  in  the  village.  So  I  must  think 
myself  a  very  fortunate  girl,  to  have  my  evenings  to 
myself,  and  £15  a  year  into  the  bargain." 

Mr.  Germain,  reflecting  upon  the  wages  of  his 
butler,  valet,  cook,  head -housemaid,  head-gardener, 
head -keeper,  head-coachman,  felt  himself — though 
he  did  not  know  it — knocked  off  his  feet.  This  comes 
of  mingling  interests  under  glamour.  The  beglam- 
oured  would  wiselier  postpone  practical  inquiries. 

But  as  it  was,  his  interest  in  the  young  girl  was 
quickened  by  admiration  and  pity  to  a  dangerous 
height.  He  more  than  admired,  he  respected  her. 
To  make  so  gallant,  so  enchanting  a  figure  on  sixty- 


62  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

five  pounds  a  year!  And  oh,  the  scheming  and  shifts 
that  the  effort  must  involve.  His  fine  hps  twitched, 
his  fine,  benevolent  eyes  grew  dim;  he  blinked  and 
raised  his  brows.  Summer  lightning  seemed  to  play 
incessantly  over  his  pale  face.  ^^My  poor  child,  my 
poor,  brave  child!''  he  murmured  to  himself:  but 
aloud  he  said, 

*^  You  interest  me  extremely — I  am  greatly  touched, 
somewhat  moved.  Believe  me,  I  value  the  confi- 
dence you  have  shown  me.  I  do  believe  I  shall  not 
be  unworthy  of  it.  I  must  think — I  must  take  time 
to  consider — a  little  time,  to  see  whether  I  cannot — 
whether  I  might  presume — Sixty-five  pounds  a  year 
— God  bless  me,  it  is  astounding!" 

Then,  to  complete  the  enchantment,  she  looked 
quickly  up  at  him,  gave  him  a  full  quiver  from 
those  deep  homes  of  wonder,  her  unsearchable  eyes. 
'^It's  wonderful  to  me,"  she  said,  simply,  without 
any  pretence,  *^that  you  should  interest  yourself  in 
me.    I  cannot  understand  it." 

He  schooled  himself  to  smile,  to  be  the  patron 
again.  ^^What  do  you  find  so  wonderful  in  that,  my 
dear?" 

^^That  you  should  find  time — that  you  should 
care — take  notice — oh,  I  don't  know  how  to  say  it. 
I'm  only  a  poor  girl,  you  know,  a  nursery  governess 
and  a  dunce.  I  was  so  terrified  when  you  came  into 
lessons  that  morning — I  couldn't  tell  you,  really. 
My  knees  knocked." 

He  felt  more  at  his  ease.  ^^  That  was  very  foolish  of 
your  knees,  my  dear.    I  was  greatly  interested.    And 


MISS  MIDDLEHAM   IS   INVITED  6^ 

pray  do  not  think  me  inquisitive:  that  is  not  one  of 
my  vices.  It  is  far  from  my  wish  to — to  patronize  one 
for  whom  I  have  so  high  a  respect.  Your  poverty  is 
as  it  may  be — at  any  rate,  you  earn  your  bread ;  and 
in  that  you  are  a  head  and  shoulders  above  myself. 
And  if  you  are  a  dunce,  which  I  cannot  admit — well, 
that  can  be  mended,  you  know.  Are  we  not  all 
dunces?  I  remember  a  very  wise  man  saying  once 
that  we  know  nothing  until  we  know  that  we  know 
nothing.    Do  you  understand  that?" 

^'Yes,  I  think  so.  But  even  then — Oh,  no!  It  is 
very  wonderful,  I  think."  And  then,  as  he  looked 
down  at  her  smiling,  he  received  again  her  full- 
orbed  attack,  and  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "Thank 
you  for  being  so  kind  to  me."  He  had  to  turn  away 
his  head  lest  he  should  betray  himself,  and  wreck 
what  was  to  him  a  moment  of  ridiculous  happiness. 
He  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak. 

At  the  turnstile  between  the  smithy  and  the  Rising 
Sun  beershop  their  ways  should  have  diverged ;  but, 
although  he  had  fallen  entirely  silent,  he  accompanied 
her  to  Orient  Cottage,  where  she  lodged.  At  the 
gate  he  held  her  hand  for  a  minute  while  he  some- 
v/hat  breathlessly  committed  himself.  "Let  us,  if 
you  will  be  so  good,  repeat  our  little  walk  the  day 
after  to-morrow — that  is,  on  Saturday.  I  leave  this 
place  on  Monday,  and  should  value  another  con- 
versation with  you.  On  Saturday  you  will  be  free, 
I  think?  Shall  we  then  say  the  morning,  at 
eleven?" 

She  would  not  allow  him  to  see  her  eyes  now. 


64  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

She  murmured  her  '^Yes — thank  you,"  and  he  went 


on. 


It  is  very  kind  of  you.  I  may  have  something  to 
say — but,  be  that  as  it  may,  to  an  old  fogy  of  my 
sort  the  companionship  of  a  young  lady  is  flattering. 
I  hope  I  may  believe  that  I  have  not  wearied  you, 
since  you  are  willing  to  indulge  me  again." 

''No,  indeed,  Mr.  Germain.  I  shall  be  proud  to 
come."  And  then  he  let  her  hand  go,  and  she 
slipped  through  the  gate.  As  she  entered  her  door 
she  looked  over  her  shoulder  a  shy  good-night;  he 
saluted  her  and  paced  slowly  back  to  the  Rectory. 
Combustible  matter  had  been  handled;  had  she 
been  less  simple  or  he  more  sure,  there's  no  saying 
what  might  not  have  been  ablaze.  As  it  was  he  be- 
trayed by  no  outward  sign  at  all  how  stirred  he  was, 
though  he  was  not  very  talkative  at  the  dinner-table. 
The  Rectory  people  dined  at  the  Park.  Tristram, 
it  was  told,  was  off  again,  He  had  gone  to  Pau,  at 
a  moment's  notice,  with  young  Lord  Branleigh. 


VII 

MISS  MIDDLEHAM  HAS  VISIONS  OF  HER  OWN 

As  for  Mary  Middleham,  it  behoved  her  to  cool 
her  hot  cheeks  and  quench  the  fires  in  her  eyes  as 
soon  as  she  might,  for  within  a  few  minutes  of  Mr. 
Germain's  departure  she  must  set  out  again.  She 
had  been  bidden  to  the  Wakes  for  supper,  and  the 
Wakes  lived  five  miles  away.  Without  changing  her 
dress,  she  mounted  her  bicycle  and  was  off.  She 
rode  fast,  but  her  thoughts  outstripped  her.  She 
tried  to  look  cool,  but  the  fire  throbbed  and  gleamed. 
It  was  not  possible  but  she  must  recall  every  stage  in 
the  journey  of  the  week  that  was  passing — a  week  in 
which  there  had  not  been  a  day  without  some  signal 
mark  of  Mr.  Germain's  attention. 

He  had  "noticed"  her;  he  had  "noticed"  her  and 

her  peddling  affairs  every  day  since  the  school-treat. 

His  interest  had  increased,  and  was  increasing;  she 

could  not  credit  it,  but  still  less  could  doubt  it.    What 

in  the  world  did  the  good  gentleman  mean?    What 

did  he  see  in  her,  what  want  of  such  as  she  was? 

Things  of  the  sort  had  happened  before;   Mr.  Du- 

plessis  was  a  gentleman,  but  he  was  different,  quite 

different.    He  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  a  younger 

65 


66  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

gentleman,  and  age  was  a  leveller.  ^'Fun"  was  to 
be  expected  from  such  as  he;  but  no  more.  Her 
conscience  had  to  be  put  to  sleep  where  Mr.  Duplessis 
was  concerned.  But  Mr.  Germain  was  good  and 
great,  wise  and — well,  middle-aged — a  landlord, 
almost  a  nobleman.  There  was  no  question  of 
^'fun''  there,  or  of  conscience  either — it  was  all  wild 
surmise.  Could  he  mean  anything?  One  answer 
to  that  only:  he  must.  Then,  what  under  Heaven 
could  he  mean  but  one  thing?  And  that  was  flat 
absurdity — impossible  of  belief.  And  yet — !  So  her 
little  careful  mind,  scared  out  of  its  bearings,  beat 
and  boxed  the  compass  as  her  heart  drove  it. 

She  had  a  shrewd  eye  for  that  form  of  flattery 
which  girls  call  ''attentions";  for  the  education  of 
her  world  cultivates  the  fibres  of  sense,  and  she  had 
been  upon  it  from  her  seventeenth  to  this  her  four- 
and-twentieth  year.  Never  a  year  of  the  seven  but 
her  wits  had  been  strung  by  some  affair  or  another, 
scarcely  one  but  she  had  supposed  herself  within  hail 
of  that  hour  of  moment,  had  seen  before  her  a  point 
beyond  which  there  was  no  seeing.  ''If  he  asks  me, 
I  must  answer  him.  And  how?"  Mostly  he  had 
not;  and,  after  a  drowning  interval,  she  had  pres- 
ently discovered  herself  heart-whole,  conscience- 
clean,  with  no  wounds  visible,  no  weals  or  bruises  to 
ache  their  reminders.  Then  it  had  all  begun  again — 
da  capo. 

She  was  very  woman  to  the  extremities.  Nothing 
more  feminine  than  she  had  ever  been  taken  from 
the  side  of  man,  or  been  more  strongly  inclined  to  go 


MISS  MIDDLEHAM  HAS  VISIONS  67 

back  again.  Nothing  else  in  life  really  interested 
her  but  the  attitude  of  men — of  this  man  or  that  man 
— towards  her.  That  was  why  work  was  task-work, 
and  daily  intercourse  (.without  an  implication)  like 
meat  without  salt.  Instinct  had  swallowed  her  up; 
her  mind  was  a  slave,  her  heart  not  yet  bom.  She 
knew  nothing  whatever  of  passion ;  nobody  had  ever 
evoked  that.  She  had  been  touched,  interested, 
flattered,  excited,  but  never  in  love  in  her  whole  life. 
Love,  indeed,  in  its  real  sense,  was  a  sealed  book; 
but  curiosity  absorbed  her,  and  she  was  as  responsive 
to  the  flatteries  of  attention  as  a  looking-glass  to 
breath.  Though  she  was  what  we  call  a  coquette  by 
nature,  she  had  no  vanities,  no  vulgar  delight  in 
flaunting  her  conquests  before  the  envious.  On  the 
contrary,  she  was  secretive,  hoarded  her  love-affairs, 
preferred  to  be  wooed  in  the  dark.  Her  philosophy 
was  really  very  simple  and,  I  say,  perfectly  innocent. 
She  loved  to  be  loved,  sought  out,  desired.  If  she 
was  pretty,  it  was  good  to  be  claimed;  if  she  was 
not,  it  was  better.    So  all  was  for  the  best. 

Sitting  erect  in  her  saddle,  with  squared  shoulders, 
open-breasted  to  the  fanning  airs,  it  was  clear  that 
she  was  pleased,  and  that  throbbing  heart  and  cours- 
ing blood  became  her.  She  had  never  looked  so 
well  or  so  modest.  Her  lips  were  parted,  but  her 
eyes  were  veiled  by  those  heavy  lids  and  deep  lashes 
which  to  Duplessis  spoke  strongly  of  desire,  and  to 
Mr.  Germain  of  virgin  bashfulness.  A  smile  lay 
lurking  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  ready  to  flash 
and  dart  as  her  thought  was  stirred.    She  was  not 


68  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

thinking — perhaps  she  was  incapable  of  it — she  was 
playing  with  thought.  What  had  he  been  doing 
with  her  to-day  ?  What  was  he  going  to  do  with  her 
the  day  after  to-morrow?  It  was  all  very  extraor- 
dinary. He  liked  her,  he  tried  to  please  her — and  so 
far  well;  but  he  was  not  like  Mr.  Duplessis,  never 
looked  at  you  as  he  did,  as  if  he  was  angry  that  you 
were  not  a  morsel.  It  wasn't  that  at  all:  well  then, 
what  was  it?  The  milestones  flew  by  between  Mis- 
perton  and  Whiteacre;  she  was  received  by  the 
buxom  Miss  Wakes  with  kisses  and  smiles ;  but  her 
questions  were  not  solved,  and  her  excitement  must 
vent  itself  in  sallies. 

So  it  did.  Young  Mr.  Perivale,  the  auctioneer's 
son,  was  dumb  before  her,  went  down  like  a  stricken 
steer.  She  teased  him,  dazzled  him,  inflamed  his 
face  and  tied-his  tongue.  She  chattered,  sang  snatches 
of  songs,  scribbled  on  the  piano,  flashed  and  loomed, 
dared  greatly  to  a  point,  and  then  turned  to  fly.  She 
sat  on  Sally's  lap  and  ate  apples,  allowed  Letty  to 
whisper  secrets  in  a  corner  and  quarrel  with  Kitty 
who  should  have  her  next ;  sedately  conscious  of  her 
good  looks,  she  sat  downcast  all  of  a  sudden  and  let 
herself  be  adored — and  then  of  the  suddenest  she 
fled  them  all  and  went  with  Mr.  Wake  to  visit  a  sick 
mare,  to  pity  and  to  serve,  to  hold  the  twitch  for  him 
while  he  administered  a  ball.  The  end  of  such 
flights  may  be  imagined ;  a  pursuit,  a  capture  in  the 
shrubbery,  her  waist  a  prisoner,  and  a  panting  dec- 
laration from  young  Perivale  of  the  state  of  his 
feelings. 


MISS  MIDDLEHAM  HAS  VISIONS  69 

She  seemed  heartless  to  him.  She  escaped  his 
arm,  and,  "Oh,  no,  Mr.  Perivale,  I  really  couldn't," 
she  told  him,  when  he  asked,  "Could  she  care  for 
him?"  and  looked  to  snatch  a  kiss.  Which  did  she 
mean — that  she  couldn't?  Both,  it  seemed.  She 
handled  him  lightly;  but  she  thoroughly  understood 
the  game,  and  her  ease  was  that  of  a  skilled  practi- 
tioner. Mr.  Perivale  was  hurt,  and,  it  may  be,  forgot 
himself.  He  told  her  fairly  that  her  head  had  been 
turned.  "That's  what  it  is,"  he  said,  with  hot  eyes 
and  a  sore  tongue,  "we're  not  good  enough  for  you 
now.  The  great  folks  have  taken  you  up.  You 
think  they  mean  something — and  perhaps  they  do. 
But  it's  not  what  you  think  it  is." 

"I  think  nothing  about  it,  I  assure  you,"  she 
cried,  with  her  head  high. 

"You  think  nothing  of  Mr.  Germain  in  the  cricket- 
field — like  a  codfish  on  a  bank?  Nothing  of  Mr. 
Duplessis  glaring  at  you  fit  to  break  you  ?  You  think 
these  very  fine  attentions  ?  You'll  excuse  me.  Miss 
Middleham,  but  I  know  the  world." 

"Oh,  you  may  believe  what  you  please  of  me,'^ 
said  she,  flushing  up;  "but  I  hope  you'll  believe 
what  I've  told  you  just  now." 

"I'll  accept  it,  whether  or  no — ,"  said  Mr.  Peri- 
vale, and  bade  her  good-night.  Left  to  herself,  in 
the  shrubbery,  she  shed  some  tears:  spretcB  injuria 
former.  The  result  of  the  scene  was  a  supper  eaten 
in  subdued  silence  and  the  prospect  of  five  miles 
home,  unescorted.  She  disliked  being  about  in  the 
dark;   imagination  pictured  beauty  defenceless  and 


70  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

man  ranging  hungrily.  There  was  a  moon,  which 
made  it  worse.  You  can  only  see  how  dark  it  is  on  a 
moonlight  night.  No  question,  however,  but  she 
must  go. 

She  made  her  farewells  and  set  out,  her  spirits 
quelled,  her  little  joys  all  dashed  by  the  quarter- 
hour's  strife,  and  a  victory  which  seemed  not  worth 
the  having.  The  wind  had  died  down ;  it  was  a  per- 
fectly still  night,  close  and  hot.  The  very  moon 
seemed  hot — heavy,  full  and  burnt  yellow — midway 
up  its  path.  Soon  she  too  was  hot,  and  walking  up 
Faraway  Hill  got  hotter.  Her  hair  loosened  and 
sagged  on  her  neck;  her  thin  muslin  gown  clung 
about  her  knees;  she  felt  tumbled  and  blowsed,  was 
as  near  cross  as  she  could  ever  be,  and  had  spirits  like 
lead — no  elation  to  be  got  out  of  the  wonderful  week, 
no  high-heart  hopes  for  the  day  after  to-morrow,  no 
wild  surmises.  Atop  of  the  great  hill  she  stopped  for 
breath,  fanned  herself  with  her  handkerchief,  and  put 
up  her  hair  again.  Then  she  mounted  and  began  the 
short  descent  to  Cubbingdean. 

She  had  not  gone  a  hundred  yards  before  she  felt 
the  dull  shock  and  gritty  strain  which  betokens  a 
punctured  wheel.  This  seemed  too  much,  but,  dis- 
mounting, she  found  it  too  true.  Disaster  on  the 
heels  of  discomfort;  here  she  w^as  with  four  fine 
miles  to  walk,  alone,  in  the  dark,  the  scorn  and  re- 
proof of  a  young  Perivale !  And  part  of  her  way  led 
over  Mere  Common,  where  gipsies  often  encamped, 
and  lay  abroad  at  this  season  of  the  year,  sleeping, 
lurking   with   dogs,   doing   wickedness   in   couples. 


MISS  MIDDLEHAM  HAS   VISIONS  71 

Her  heart  began  to  beat  at  the  thought  of  all  this — 
and  what  wickedness  they  might  do,  and  how  the 
dogs  would  scuffle  and  tear;  but  there  was  no  help 
for  it.  She  had  passed  this  way  but  three  hours  ago 
— and  how  gay  it  had  looked  in  the  golden  sunlight 
of  the  late  afternoon !  Ah,  but  then  her  thoughts  had 
been  golden,  and  music  in  her  heart.  A  snatch  came 
back  of  the  song  which  had  been  on  her  lips;  stale 
jingle  it  seemed  to  her  now.  There  had  been  no  gip- 
sies, though,  on  the  Common;  comfort  in  that. 

After  Cubbingdean,  where  a  little  river  rans  over 
the  road,  you  climb  again  between  hedgerows  and 
orchards ;  then  comes  a  piece  of  woodland  on  either 
side,  and  beyond  that  you  are  on  IMere  Common, 
which  is  more  than  a  mile  across  and  half  as  much 
again  in  length.  Mary  tiptoed  through  the  wood 
with  a  knocking  heart  and,  taking  breath,  addressed 
herself  to  the  proof  before  her.  She  had  not,  so  far, 
met  a  living  soul,  unless  pheasants  have  souls,  and 
hares.  These  light-foot  beasts  had  made  her  jump 
more  than  enough,  and  set  the  pulses  at  her  temples 
beating  like  kettle-drums.  Her  mind  was  beset  by 
terrors ;  she  had  to  bite  her  lip  sharply  to  keep  her- 
self to  her  task. 

The  wooded  road  opened,  the  trees  thinned  out; 
now  she  was  on  the  Common,  indeed,  and  saw  the 
ghostly  lumps  of  furze — each  in  its  shroud — on  either 
hand,  w^ith  the  mist  irradiate  upon  them.  She  saw 
the  ribbon  of  white  road  tapering  to  a  point — and 
midway  of  that,  beside  it,  dead  in  her  way,  a  bright 
and  steady  light.     At  this  apparition  she  stopped 


72  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

short,  gazing  in  panic,  her  eyes  wide,  lips  apart. 
Somebody  was  there!  somebody  was  there — and 
what  could  she  do  ? 

She  had  plenty  of  spirit  for  the  ordinary  encoun- 
ters of  daylight.  Over-confident  young  Mr.  Perivale, 
impudent  Sunday  scholars,  young  men  who  took 
liberties,  found  their  level ;  Mrs.  James  herself  would 
not  care  to  go  too  far.  But  in  the  dark  her  imagina- 
tion rode  her;  she  then  became  what  indeed  she 
seemed  to  one  at  least  of  her  admirers — the  hunted 
nymph  cowering  in  covert,  appealing  only  for  the 
mercy  of  men.  So  now,  before  this  terrible  light, 
glimmering  there  steady  and  on  the  watch,  her  knees 
began  to  shake,  her  eyes  to  grow  dim.  She  dared 
not  pass  it — so  much  she  confessed ;  she  must  make 
a  wide  cast,  and  slip  by  it  through  the  furze. 

She  plunged  desperately  in  and  struck  out  to  the 
left  of  the  road.  Almost  immediately  the  furze  was 
level  with  her  head,  often  over  it;  and  she  had  but 
one  arm  free  to  fend  it  off.  It  scratched  her  cheeks, 
tore  her  frock,  pulled  her  hair  all  about  her  shoul- 
ders; she  felt  the  hairpins  part  and  fall.  As  for  the 
accursed  bicycle,  it  seemed  to  be  battling  on  its  own 
account  like  a  mad  thing,  contesting  every  inch  of 
ground,  clinging  to  every  root,  sticking  in  every  hol- 
low. Her  breath  went,  and  her  strength  after  it,  but 
still  she  fought  and  panted.  Amazing  contrast  be- 
tween what  she  had  been  at  seven  o'clock,  and  was 
now  at  half -past  ten!  Impossibly  fair  seemed  the 
spent  day,  impossibly  serene  her  panic  heart.  Bitter 
regret  for  what  was  so  lovely  and  so  far  away  started 


MISS   MIDDLEHAM  HAS  VISIONS  73 

the  tears  again;  she  bit  her  lip,  forced  herself  on: 
but  at  last,  pushing  with  all  her  might  between  two 
ragged  clumps,  she  was  caught  up  sharp,  felt  a  sting- 
ing pain  on  her  shin,  her  ankle  gripped  by  something 
which  cut  to  the  bone.  She  tottered  and  fell  forward 
upon  her  bicycle,  and  as  she  went  down  the  ring  of 
fire  holding  her  ankle  bit  and  burned — and  Mary 
shrieked. 

She  had  done  herself  no  service  by  her  detour^  for 
she  heard  a  man  cry,  ''Hulloa — I'm  coming,'^  and 
resigned  herself  to  utter  fate.  God  send  him  kind! 
— what  were  these  terrible  teeth  at  her  ankle?  She 
felt  out  to  reach  it — a  wire !  She  was  in  a  hare- wire, 
set,  no  doubt  by  this  ruffian  who  was  coming  to  her 
now.  She  heard  him  labouring  through  the  bushes, 
and  held  her  breath;  and  then  again  he  called — 
*^ Where  are  you?  Don't  be  afraid."  That  was  a 
good  voice  surely!  That  was  a  young  man's  voice — 
not  a  gipsy's.  Comforted,  perhaps  interested,  she 
crouched,  holding  her  caught  ankle,  and  waited. 


vm 

friendship's  garland 

The  beam  of  a  lantern  enveloped  her  and  her 
gossamered  surroundings;  presently  it  blazed  full 
upon  her,  discovered  her  flushed  and  reproachful 
face,  curtained  in  hair.  She  saw  a  tall  person,  bare- 
headed, in  what  seemed  to  be  white  clothes,  and,  by 
a  chance  ray,  that  he  was  sallow,  black-haired,  smil- 
ing, and  had  black  eyes.  A  young  man!  She  had 
no  fears  left;  she  was  on  her  own  ground  again. 

^'What  under  the  sky  are  you  doing  here?"  he 
said.    She  almost  laughed. 

^'I'm  caught  in  a  hare-wire.    It  hurts  very  much." 

^'It  would,  you  know.  Let  me  look."  He  knelt 
beside  her,  and  then  his  quick  fingers  searched  for 
the  wire.  As  they  touched  hers  she  felt  them  cool 
and  nervous.  "I've  got  it.  I  say!  it's  nearly  through 
your  stocking.  No  wonder  you  cried — but  now  you 
know  why  a  hare  cries.  Quiet  now — I'll  have  it  off  in 
a  minute."  He  dived  for  a  knife,  talking  all  the  time. 
''I  dare  say  you  think  that  I  set  that  wire  for  a  hare, 
and  caught  you.  You're  quite  wrong.  I  don't  kill 
hares,  and  I  don't  eat  'em;  too  nearly  related  to  us, 
I  believe.    One  minute  more — "  and  he  nipped  the 

74 


FRIENDSHIP'S   GARLAND  75 

wire.  ^^  There — you  are  free.  You  can  leap  and  you 
can  run.  Perhaps  you'd  care  to  tell  me  why  you 
battle  in  these  brakes,  tearing  your  frock  to  ribbons 
and  scratching  your  eyes  out,  when  you  might  walk 
that  road  like  a  Christian  lady.  Just  as  you  please — 
why,  good  Lord,  you've  got  a  bike!  It  beats  cock- 
fighting.  But  don't  tell  me  unless  you  care  to;  per- 
haps it's  a  secret." 

She  stiffened  her  shoulders  for  the  fray.  ^^I  wish 
to  tell  you  because  I'm  ashamed  of  myself  now.  Of 
course,  it's  not  a  secret.  I  have  punctured  my  bicycle, 
and  have  to  walk  home — three  miles  more.  And  I 
saw  your  light  in  front  of  me,  and  was  frightened." 

His  eyes  were  as  bright  as  her  own,  but  much 
more  mischievous.  ^'Frightened?"  he  said.  ^^What, 
of  the  light?" 

"No,  no,  of  course  not.  But  some  one  must  have 
lit  it." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  were  frightened  of 
me?    The  most  harmless  creature  on  God's  earth?" 

She  laughed.  "How  could  I  know  how  harmless 
you  were?    I  thought  you  were  gipsies." 

"I  couldn't  be  gipsies.  Perhaps  I  am  a  gipsy — 
I'm  not  sure  that  I  know  what  I  am.  My  father 
might,  poor  man — and  he's  an  alderman.  That 
light,  let  me  tell  you,  was  going  to  cook  my  supper; 
and  now  it  shall  cook  yours,  if  you'll  have  some." 

An  invitation  suggested  in  that  way  can  only  have 
one  answer  from  a  young  woman.  "No,  thank  you. 
I  must  go  on  if  I  can.  It's  dreadfully  late."  He  re- 
flected. 


76  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"It's  late,  but  it's  not  dreadful  at  all.  These 
summer  nights  are  made  to  live  in.  Look  at  the 
moon  on  those  misty  bushes!  Nothing  lovelier  can 
be  dreamed  of  by  poets  than  the  hours  from  now  to 
dawn.  Sightseers  always  go  for  daylight — and  in 
July  everything's  blotted  up  in  sap  green.  There's 
no  drawing  in  July — I  say,  you  might  get  up,  don't 
you  think?" 

"Yes,  I  might."  She  tried,  and  sat  down  again 
with  a  wry  face.  "It  hurts  awfully."  He  had 
watched  the  performance. 

"I  guessed  it  would.  Well,  look  here.  I'll  help 
you."  He  put  out  his  two  hands,  met  hers,  and 
pulled  her  gently  up  by  the  wrists.  "Lean  on  my 
shoulder — lean  as  hard  as  you  like."  So  she  did, 
because  she  must. 

She  limped  by  his  side  through  the  brake,  and  he 
talked  on.  It  seemed  to  her  afterw^ards  that  she  had 
never  heard  so  much  talk  in  her  life.  Singular  talk 
too— as  if  to  himself — no  hint  of  her  in  it — no  affected 
gallantr}^  or  solicitude — no  consciousness  of  her 
presence,  not  even  of  her  contact ;  and  yet,  when  she 
stumbled  and  ckmg  to  his  shoulder,  he  took  her 
round  the  waist  and  supported  her  whole  weight 
with  his  arm,  and  so  held  her  until  he  had  her  safely 
by  his  fire. 

He  made  her  sit  down  upon  his  rug,  took  off  her 
shoe  and  told  her  to  take  her  stocking  oft'  while  he 
got  a  rag.  She  obeyed  without  question,  and  pres- 
ently had  her  ankle  in  a  bandage,  which  smelt  aro- 
matic and  stung  her,   but  gave  strength  and  was 


FRIENDSHIP'S   GARLAND  77 

pleasant.  She  was  very  grateful,  and  entirely  at  her 
ease.  ''I  think  I'm  glad  that  I  was  afraid  of  you," 
she  told  him.  *^Do  you  know  that  I've  never  been 
so  taken  care  of  in  my  life?"  He  was  putting  her 
shoe  on  at  the  moment,  pulling  tight  the  laces.  ''I 
don't  believe  you,"  he  said.  ^^You  are  the  sort  that 
was  made  to  be  taken  care  of — abominably  feminine. 
The  odds  are  that  you'll  put  my  picture  out  of  my 
head  for  at  least  three  days — so  I  shall  have  to  stop 
here  until  it  comes  back  again." 

^'Then  I'm  very  sorry — "  she  began,  but  stopped, 
as  if  puzzled. 

''You  need  not  be.  I  shall  be  perfectly  happy. 
And  it  will  give  you  a  chance  of  biking  out  here  to 
report  yourself." 

Was  this  an  invitation?  Did  he — ?  No;  it  was 
never  done  in  that  tone. 

"I  shall  certainly  come,"  she  said.  ''Perhaps 
you'll  show  me  the  picture.    Are  you  an  artist?" 

He  nodded,  busy  preparing  a  dish  for  the  fire, 
a  little  silver  dish,  into  which  he  was  breaking  eggs. 
"I'm  going  to  make  an  omelette;  you  are  to  eat  half 
of  it.  I'm  an  artist  in  omelettes,  I  do  believe.  Yes, 
I'mi  a  sort  of  artist;  a  bad  one,  you  know.  But  we're 
all  bad  unless  we're  the  best  of  all — and  there's  only 
one  best.  However,  it's  all  the  same.  You  have 
your  fun." 

"But — "  She  was  looking  about  her  with  anima- 
tion— "But  where  do  you — ?    I  mean,  do  you — ?" 

He  chuckled,  but  mostly  with  his  black  eyes.  "I 
know  what  you  mean.     Everybody  asks  the  same 


78  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

questions,  and  breaks  them  off  at  the  same  point. 
I'll  tell  you.  I  live  here,  at  this  moment.  I  do  travel 
in  that  cart — and  this  is  my  tent — and  that  ghost 
over  there  is  my  white  horse — and  hulloa!  youVe 
woken  Bingo.''  A  lithe  grey  dog  came  delicately 
forward  into  the  light,  with  lowly  head  and  lowly 
wagging  tail.  He  was  like  a  terrier,  with  hound's 
ears,  soft  and  sleek  and  silver  grey.  He  sniffed  at 
Mary's  dress  and  feet,  sneezed  over  the  bandage, 
and,  edging  up,  put  a  cool  nose  against  her  neck, 
and  then  a  warm  tongue. 

*'0h,  what  a  darling  I"  she  cried  softly,  and  made 
much  of  him. 

*^He's  a  Bedlington,"  said  his  owner,  above  the 
sizzling  eggs,  "a  beauty  and  a  devil.  He  likes  you 
evidently — and  reasonably.  He  won't  curl  up  like 
that  on  every  lady's  skirts,  I  assure  you.  Don't  talk 
though,  or  I  can't  beat  up  this  thing.  Talk  to  Bingo ; 
he's  my  friend." 

This  friendly,  cool-tempered  young  man  was,  she 
thought,  very  odd  to  look  at — long  in  the  body  and 
thin  in  the  leg.  He  was  quite  new  to  her  experience. 
Gentlefolk  she  knew,  and  other  folk,  her  own,  and 
all  the  infinite  gradations  between — county,  clergy, 
professional,  retired  military,  down  to  commercial 
and  even  lower.  This  was  a  gentleman  certainly — • 
and  yet — well,  there  was  Mr.  Duplessis,  for  instance, 
with  whom  you  were  never  to  forget  that  he  was  a 
gentleman  and  you  were  village.  Mr.  Duplessis  was 
very  easy,  until  you  were  easy  too — then  he  got  stiff 
directly,  and  back  you  must  go.     But  this  strange 


FRIENDSHIP'S   GARLAND  79 

gentleman  didn't  seem  to  notice  such  things;  he 
seemed  too  full  of  what  he  was  thinking  about,  or 
doing — and  if  he  looked  at  you  by  chance,  as  often 
as  not  he  didn't  seem  to  see  you;  and  when  you 
looked  at  him,  he  never  noticed  it  at  all.  She  ad- 
judged him  "foreign,"  and  to  be  sure,  he  had  a 
narrow,  foreign  face,  very  swarthy,  with  a  pair  of 
piercing  black  eyes,  a  bafHing  smile,  and  quick, 
sudden  ways  of  turning  both  against  you,  as  if  he 
had  that  moment  found  you  out,  and  was  amused. 
At  other  times,  as  she  came  to  learn,  those  eyes  of  his 
could  be  fathomless  and  vacant,  could  stare  through 
you  as  if  you  were  a  winter  hedge.  His  hair  was  jet- 
black,  and  straight,  and  his  moustache  followed  his 
mouth  and  curled  up  when  he  smiled.  She  had 
never  seen  a  man  so  deft  with  his  fingers  or  so  light 
and  springy  on  his  feet.  Those  long,  eager  fingers — 
she  could  still  feel  them  at  her  ankle  and  marvel  at 
their  strength  and  gentleness  as  they  sought  about 
and  plucked  free  the  biting  wire.  His  dress  too  was 
extraordinary — a  long  white  sweater  with  a  rolling 
collar,  a  pair  of  flannel  trousers;  no  socks,  but  san- 
dals on  his  feet.  Long  and  bony  feet  they  were, 
beautifully  made,  she  said.  Whatever  he  was  or 
was  not,  certainly  he  was  kind  and  interesting;  and 
perhaps  the  most  baffling  quality  about  him  was  his 
effect  upon  herself — that  she  w^as  entirely  at  home 
in  his  company,  and  had  no  care  to  know  what  he 
thought  about  her. 

He  serv^ed  her  with  omelette  hot  and  poured  her 
out  a  glass  of  pale  wine,  which  smelt  like  flowers. 


8o  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

and  was  stronger,  she  found,  than  it  seemed.  A  pic- 
nic at  midnight!  It  was  great  fun!  She  glanced  at 
her  host,  and  was  answered  by  a  gleam.  He  was 
enjoying  it,  too.  *^Do  you  know  what  I'm  going  to 
do  next?"  he  asked  her,  breaking  the  first  silence  he 
had  kept  since  the  encounter.  *^I  shall  catch  that 
absorbed  ghost,  which  is  really  a  horse,  and  take  you 
your  three  miles  in  my  cart.  Before  that  I  shall 
mend  your  puncture  for  you." 

She  wouldn't  allow  that.  "Please,  not.  I  can 
mend  it  quite  well  to-morrow,  and  won't  have  you 
spoil  your  supper.  I  have  had  mine,  you  must  re- 
member and  if  I  am  to  have  another,  I  insist  upon 
your  company."  He  laughed  *^A11  right,"  and  fell 
to  again. 

Perhaps  her  wine  made  her  talkative ;  but  I  think 
that  she  had  leisure  of  mind  to  be  interested.  At 
any  rate,  she  volleyed  him  a  string  of  questions 
about  himself,  at  all  of  which  he  laughed — but  she 
found  out  mostly  what  she  wanted  to  know.  As 
thus — That  cart  contained  his  whole  worldly  prop- 
erty. "It's  my  house,  or  my  bed,  or  both;  it's  my 
carriage  and  pair,  my  bank,  studio,  library,  forcing- 
house,  potting-shed,  bath-room,  bed-room,  as  I 
choose  it.  When  it's  wet  I  can  be  dry  in  there ;  when 
it's  fine,  I  leave  it  alone.  It's  all  I  have,  and  it's 
more  than  enough.  I've  pared  it  down  to  the  irre- 
ducible minimum,  and  yield  now  to  one  man  only — 
the  tramp.  Him  I  believe  to  be  the  wisest  son  of 
man,  for  he  has  nothing  at  all.  Now,  you  know,  the 
less  you  have  of  your  own,  the  more  you  have  of 


FRIENDSHIP'S   GARLAND  8 1 

everybody's.  The  whole  world  is  the  tramp's;  but 
it  can't  be  mine,  because  of  that  shell  on  wheels. 
I  am  as  the  snail  to  the  hare — but  what  are  you, 
pray,  and  the  rest  of  your  shackled  generation  ?  .  .  . 

^'There's  a  tent  in  that  cart,  which  will  go  up  in 
ten  minutes — anywhere.  And  the  materials  of  my 
trades  are  there — I've  several.  I  scratch  poetry — 
and  paint  in  water-colours — and  ain't  bad  at  tink- 
ering." At  this  she  gazed  with  all  her  eyes;  but  he 
assured  her,  ''I'll  mend  you  a  kettle  as  soon  as  your 
bike.  I  learnt  sawdering  from  a  drunken  old  Welsh- 
man under  the  shadow  of  Plinlimmon.  He  died  in 
my  arms  presently,  and  left  me  his  tools  as  well  as 
his  carcase.  .  .  .  You  need  not  be  shocked.  I  do  it 
because  I  like  it — I  don't  say  that  I  should  be  ruined, 
mind  you,  if  I  gave  it  up  .  .  .  but  one  can't  paint 
against  the  mood,  still  less  write.  .  .  . 

''I've  done  this  sort  of  thing — and  gardening  (I'm 
a  bit  of  a  gardener,  too) — for  nine  years  or  more,  and 
shall  never  do  anything  else.  Why  should  I?  I'm 
perfectly  happy,  quite  harmless,  and  (I  do  believe) 
useful  in  my  small  way.  I  could  maintain  that,  I 
think,  before  a  judge  and  jury." 

He  had  no  need,  certainly,  to  maintain  it  at  length 
before  his  present  hearer,  who  was  very  ready  to  be- 
lieve him ;  but  he  seemed  to  feel  in  the  vein  to  justify 
himself. 

"You  see,  I'm  self-sufficient.  I  renounced  my 
patrimony  on  deliberation,  and  support  myself  and 
a  little  bit  over.  Tinkering  don't  go  far,  I  own — 
sometimes  I  do  it  for  love,  too.    But  I  sell  a  picture 


82  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

now  and  then  to  a  confiding  poor  devil  who  only  asks 
to  buy  'em,  and  do  very  well.  I  destroy  most  of  'em, 
because  they  don't  come  off;  if  I  had  the  nerve  to  sell 
those  I  should  have  more  money  for  plants." 

She  stopped  him  here.  *' Plants!"  she  said,  puz- 
zled, "but " 

He  quizzed  her.  "You  look  for  my  conservatory? 
My  herbaceous  border?  I  defy  you.  You'll  never 
find  them.  If  you  could  the  game  would  be  up.  All 
the  same,  all  my  superfluous  pence  find  their  way  to 
the  nurserymen — nurserymen  of  sorts.  ..." 

As  she  did  not  press  him  he  resumed  his  mono- 
logue. "Mind  you,  I  say  that  I  have  the  best  time 
of  any  man  on  this  earth.  But  you're  judging  me, 
I  know.  The  women  are  always  the  worst.  They 
think  it  such  shameful  waste  of  time,  when  one  might 
be  dressing  one's  person,  or  looking  at  theirs." 

She  wasn't  judging  him  at  all;  she  was  drinking 
him  up — him  and  his  wisdom.  For  the  first  time  in 
her  life  she  was  really  interested  in  something  in  a 
man  which  did  not  reside  in  his  sex,  or  which,  it  is 
perhaps  kinder  to  say,  had  no  relation  to  her  own. 
So  absorbed  was  she  that  his  cut  at  her  kind  did  not 
affect  her,  if  she  heard  it;  but  she  noticed  at  once 
that  he  had  stopped. 

"Please  go  on — please  tell  me  more  about  your- 
self— about  your  way  of  life,  I  mean.  Oh,  I  think 
you  are  extraordinary!" 

She  had  completely  forgotten  herself.  Her  eyes 
had  not  for  a  moment  left  searching  his  face;  her 
ha.nds  cupped  her  cheeks,  her  knees  supported  her 


FRIENDSHIP'S   GARLAND  8^ 

elbows;  and  all  about  her  arms  and  shoulders  her 
loose  hair  streamed  and  rippled.  Her  face  was  hot, 
her  eyes  like  wet  stars;  she  had  never  looked  so 
pretty,  perhaps  because  she  neither  knew  nor  cared 
anything  about  it,  whether  she  looked  well  or  whether 
he  thought  so.  It  was  plain  that  he  had  other  things 
to  think  of — and  one  thing  is  plainer,  that  if  she  had 
not,  her  hair  would  have  been  up  long  ago. 

He  laughed  at  her  wonderment.  ^'Oh,  I  don't 
know  that  I'm  extraordinary  at  all — on  the  contrary, 
everybody  else  seems  extraordinary  to  me.  It's  so 
simple.  I  don't  doubt  but  I  could  make  you  see 
what  a  great  life  I  lead — that's  my  business  as  an 
artist.  But  it  would  do  you  no  sort  of  good — and 
I'm  not  a  proselytizer.  The  thing  is  to  get  your  fun 
out  of  what  you're  obliged  to  do — or,  if  you  prefer 
it,  to  make  it  your  business  to  do  what  you  like. 
The  Socialists  say  so,  and  so  do  I.  After  that  we 
differ.  We  differ  as  to  ways  and  means.  They  say 
that  people  can  only  be  made  happy  by  dynamite. 
Dynamite  first,  Act  of  Parliament  afterwards.  Mr. 
Wells  tones  down  the  dynamite;  talks  about  a  comet. 
It's  dynamite  he  means.  That's  where  he's  wrong. 
You  can  shred  people's  morals  by  blowing  their 
neighbours  up — but  not  their  characters.  Their 
morals  will  go  to  pieces  because  character  remains. 
You  don't  want  that  at  all.  Morals  will  always  fol- 
low character,  and  that's  what  you  must  get  at,  but 
not  by  dynamite.  Well,  how  are  you  going  to  de- 
velop character?  I  say  by  Poverty.  Pride's  Purge! 
There's  my  nostrum  for  the  world-sickness — Pov- 


84  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

erty,  Poverty,  Poverty!  In  fact,  I'm  a  Franciscan — 
by  temperament  and  opinion,  and  not  because  I'm  in 
love  with  the  Virgin  Mary.  I  have  nothing,  and  pos- 
sess all  things;  I'm  rich  because  I'm  destitute ;  I'm 
always  filling  myself  because  I'm  always  empty. 
Do  you  see?" 

She  looked  doubtfully,  frowned  a  little,  then  took 
her  eyes  from  him.  ^'No,  I  don't  see.  I  don't  under- 
stand you.  I  know  that  you  are  not  laughing  at  me; 
but  I  think  you  will  now.  Never  mind ;  you've  been 
very  nice  to  me." 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  his  glass  in  mid- 
career,  **I  assure  you  that  I'm  not  laughing  at  all. 
I'm  telling  you  what  I  believe  to  be  literal  truth. 
Perhaps  one  of  these  days  you  will  be  really  poor, 
and  then  you'll  agree  with  me.  How  can  you  fill 
yourself  if  you're  full  already?  and  where  do  you 
find  any  pleasure  in  life  except  in  wanting  a  thing, 
and  getting  it?  Can't  you  distinguish  between  hav- 
ing and  using?  Can't  you  see  that  to  possess  this 
Common,  fenced  and  guarded  by  keepers  and  varlets 
of  sorts,  would  be  exactly  the  same  as  to  use  it  as  I 
do  now,  with  all  the  hamper  of  the  stake  in  the 
county  added  on  to  it?" 

She  looked  at  her  toes,  frowned,  tried  to  think — 
then  raised  her  eyes.  "Yes,  yes,  perhaps  I  see  that. 
But  you  must  know  that  I  am  quite  poor.  And 
yet " 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "you're  not  poor  enough.  You 
can't  allow  yourself  to  be.  It  isn't  pence  that  you 
must  hoard,  but  opinion,  my  friend,  the  sound  opin- 


FRIENDSHIP'S   GARLAND  85 

ion  of  your  neighbours — and  of  yourself,  too.  Look 
here:  apply  what  I've  been  saying  about  this  Com- 
mon to  every  blessed  thing — from  God  to  groundsel, 
from  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  to  your  villa  at  Putney 
— apply  it  to  religion,  to  rank,  to  marriage,  to  mur- 
der, and  blazes — and  you'll  see.  But  you  shall  work 
it  out  at  home,  for  I'm  going  to  take  you  to  bed." 
He  rose  here  and  stretched  himself,  his  hands  deep  in 
his  pockets.    Her  eyes  pleaded. 

^'Please,  let  me  think  of  something  first." 
^^  Think  away.    We'll  talk  presently,  but  now  I'm 
going  to  raise  the  ghost."    He  went  lightly  after  his 
cropping  horse,  and  Mary  sat  by  the  fire. 

How  all  this  tilted  her  balances !  He  little  guessed 
what  deeps  he  had  stirred  within  her  simple  soul. 
Deeps!  Why,  what  fisherman  had  ever  yet  dropped 
his  hook  below  the  pretty  surface?  What  evidence 
had  she,  or  any  one,  that  deeps  there  were?  Oh,  the 
great  views  at  his  will  and  pleasure — this  gentleman- 
tinker's,  who  made  omelettes  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  and  talked  like  a  ruler  of  men,  putting  down 
and  setting  up  with  unfaltering  voice,  altering  re- 
spects, changing  relationships  like  a  lawgiver.  Pov- 
erty— destitution — to  go  beggared  of  opinion  as  well 
as  pence,  and  to  be  the  richer  for  it  ?  She  might  well 
pout  her  lips  and  wrinkle  her  little  nose  as  she  applied 
all  this  to  her  own  concerns.  Her  heart  sank  to  view 
her  own  behttling.  Gossip,  flirtation,  little  quarrels, 
and  harsh  judgments,  a  nod  from  Mrs.  James,  a  smile 
from  Miss  de  Speyne,  dresses,  a  new  blouse,  young 
Perivale,   Mr.   Duplessis,   Mr. .     No,   no,   not 


86  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

Mr.  Germain!  Even  now  there  was  a  faint  throb 
of  the  heart  as  she  thought  of  the  day  after  to- 
morrow, and  hugged  the  comfort  of  an  excitement 
to  come. 

^' Ready,  if  you  are,"  she  heard,  and  rose  to  join 
her  host.  The  gentleman-tinker  was  in  the  road 
with  his  horse  and  cart,  passing  the  reins  along. 
Bingo,  snorting  and  stretching  his  hind  legs,  was 
very  ready  for  the  frolic. 

^^How's  the  ankle?" 

"Much  better.    Too  much  better." 

"Nonsense.  That's  one  of  the  things  we  must 
have.    I  don't  preach  abstinence  from  limbs." 

She  laughed.  "No,  of  course  not.  But  I  think 
that  I  should  have  liked  to  be  kept  in  for  a  day — or 
two.    And  I  know  that  I  can't  be." 

"You're  better  out,  I  suspect." 

"I'm  not  sure  now — since  you  have  been  talking. 
You  have  made  me  think." 

"You'll  find  it  hard  work.  Meantime* you  had 
better  get  up — it's  gone  midnight."  That  sent  her 
up  with  a  little  shocked  cry.  He  lifted  in  the  bicycle, 
and  mounted  beside  her.  "Now — where  are  we 
going?" 

She  told  him.  Misperton  Brand  was  the  first  vil- 
lage he  came  to. 

"  Oh,  I  Imow  it,"  he  said.  "I  had  adventures  there, 
ages  ago.  I  encamped  in  a  park — Lord  Somebody's 
park — and  they  turned  me  out.  But  I  met  that  lord 
afterwards,  and  he  proved  to  be  rather  a  good  sort 
of  man." 


FRIENDSHIP'S   GARLAND  87 

'^He's  Lord  Cantacute.  Do  you  know  the  Rector, 
Mr.  Germain?" 

^^No.  I  don't  get  on  with  rectors.  They  seem  to 
think  that  I  should  go  to  their  churches,  but  I  never 
do.  I  don't  ask  them  to  mine;  why  should  they  ask 
me  to  theirs?  There's  an  obliquity  about  Chris- 
tianity which  beats  me.  What's  his  name?  Ger- 
main? Any  relation  of  Lord  George's,  I  wonder? 
celebrated  man,  to  whom  the  Americans  ought  to 
put  up  a  statue.  He  gave  them  their  country,  I  be- 
lieve.   Gave  it  away  to  them,  you  might  put  it." 

She  knew  nothing  of  Lord  George.  ^^  There's  a 
Mr.  John  Germain,"  she  said,  not  quite  ingenuously, 
^^who  is  head  of  the  family." 

He  considered  Mr.  John  Germain.  '^I  believe 
I've  come  against  him,  too,  somewhere.  Germain 
— Germain — Shotaway — Shotover  ?  That's  it — Shot- 
over  House — big  red  and  white  place,  with  a  pediment 
and  a  park.  Near  Reading.  Yes,  I*was  turned  out 
of  that,  too.    Solemn  old  boy,  thin,  with  glasses." 

She  flushed  up  in  the  dark.  ''He's  very  nice. 
He's  staying  here.    I  know  him.    He's  kind." 

Her  companion  looked  round.  "Do  you  mean 
that  he's  kind  to  you,  or  kind  all  round  ?  He  wasn't 
very  kind  to  me.  He  said  that  I  fostered  contempt 
for  my  class.  I  admitted  it,  and  he  got  angry.  Why 
shouldn't  I,  if  I  believe  it  contemptible?" 

"He's  very  kind  to  me,"  she  replied  seriously. 
"He's  a  gentleman,  you  know,  and " 

"And  you're  a  lady.  Well,  that's  not  necessarily 
kind — to  you." 


88  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"But,"  she  said,  "you  don't  let  me  finish.  I  am 
not  a  lady,  you  know — not  of — well,  not  of  his  class. 
That's  why  I  think  him  kind." 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  you  are  right,"  her  friend  said. 
"How  does  his  kindness  show  itself?"  She  made 
haste  to  justify  Mr.  Germain. 

"Well,  to  begin  with,  in  his  being  interested  in  me 
at  all.    He  talks  to  me — he  asks  about  my  work." 

"What  is  your  work?"  she  was  shortly  asked. 

Teaching,  she  told  him;  she  was  a  governess. 

He  looked  at  her  now,  strange  man,  with  real  in- 
terest. "Are  you,  though?  By  Heaven,  then  there's 
a  chance  for  you  yet.  You're  above  us  all.  He  may 
well  be  kind,  with  the  next  generation  depending  en- 
tirely on  you.  Teachers  and  mothers — no  parson  can 
beat  that.    Is  Germain  a  schoolmaster?" 

She  began  in  a  shocked  voice,  "Oh,  no!  He's  a 
gen — "  but  was  drowned  in  laughter.  He  threw  his 
head  up  and  laughed  to  the  sky. 

"You're  a  wonder,  I  must  say.  I  beg  him  ten 
thousand  pardons — I  forgot.  Of  course,  he's  a  gen- 
tleman." 

Mary  was  piqued.  "That's  not  very  kind  of 
you,"  she  said,  with  reproach  in  her  tones,  and  he 
humbled  himself  at  once. 

"I'm  very  sorry,  but  I'll  confess  the  whole.  The 
fact  is,  you've  jumped  into  a  little  pit  which  I  had 
dug  for  you — headlong.  Upon  my  word,  I  beg  your 
pardon.  But  don't  you  know  that  these  class-boxes 
into  which  you  plump  every  mother's  son  of  us,  and 
are  at  such  pains  to  keep  guarded,  lest  one  of  us 


FRIENDSHIP'S   GARLAND  89 

should  step  out,  are  the  very  things  I'm  vowed  to 
destroy?  Why,  God  be  good  to  us,  what  are  we  to 
do  in  our  boxes — with  all  this  going  on?"  He 
stretched  his  arm  out — "This  dappled  earth,  sing- 
ing, and  spinning  like  a  great  dusty  ball  through 
star-space!  Oh,  I  must  talk  to  you  again  about  all 
this — you,  with  children  in  your  two  hands  to  be 
made  into  men  and  women!  But  not  now — it's  too 
serious.  When  are  you  coming  to  report  your  ankle, 
and  tell  me  that  I'm  forgiven?" 

She  smiled  upon  him.  '^I've  quite  forgiven  you. 
It  was  I  who  was  foolish.  I  am  sure  you  must  be 
right.  May  I  come  on  Sunday?  That's  my  free 
day.  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you — about  lots  of 
things." 

"Delighted  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "Come  by  day- 
light this  time,  and  come  by  road.  Here's  your  vil- 
lage opening." 

He  set  her  down  at  the  top  of  the  street,  since  she 
would  not  allow  him  further.  Prepared  to  thank 
him  with  her  prettiest,  the  words  died  on  her  tongue. 
"Not  a  bit,  not  a  bit,"  he  cut  them  down.  "I  love 
com.pany.  I've  enjoyed  myself  immensely,  orating 
away.  You're  a  rare  listener;  you  seem  as  if  you 
had  never  heard  it  before.    Good-night." 

She  held  him  up  her  hand — he  touched  it — turned 
the  horse,  and  was  gone. 

When  she  had  lighted  her  candle  the  first  thing 
she  did  with  it  was  to  hold  it  up  that  she  might  look 
in  the  glass.  Her  hot  eyes  and  burning  cheeks  were 
ignored  for  more  serious  disorders.     "My  hair!" 


po  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

And   then   she   laughed.     "He  would   not   know 
whether  I  had  any  hair!" 

Late  as  it  was,  and  tired  as  she  was,  sleep  was  long 
in  coming. 


IX 

THE  WELDING   OF  THE  BOLT 

Poetry,  Lord  Cantacute  was  saying  at  dinner,  is 
like  a  wind-egg — aberration  in  the  producer,  useless 
for  consumption.  You  don't  attempt  to  eat  a  wind- 
egg.  It  is  remarkable,  perhaps;  but,  once  gaped  at, 
you  had  best  leave  it  to  the  parent  fowl  that  will  be 
glad  of  it.  ^'You  encourage  cannibalism?"  asked 
the  Rector,  with  a  lifting  eyebrow.  Really,  Lord 
Cantacute  saw  nothing  against  it.  Perhaps  it  was  a 
matter  of  taste — but  so  was  poetry.  And  who  else 
could  thrive  upon  the  stuff?  Since  all  this  was 
apropos  of  the  absent  Tristram,  whose  talents  and 
fluency  were  admitted  while  their  trend  was  deplored, 
Mrs.  James  could  not  fail  to  remember  a  thriving 
ccmsumer  of  his  wares.  Had  she  not  caught  him 
administering  wind-egg  by  spoonfuls  to  a  hatless 
young  lady?  The  excursion  was  closed  with  a  flash 
by  Miss  Hertha  de  Speyne,  who,  from  her  golden 
throne,  said  that  poetry  was  very  well  if  the  mortal 
poet  did  not  practise  what  he  sang.  No  other  art, 
she  thought,  had  that  grain  of  vice  in  it.  Now,  we 
were  not  ready  to  practise  poetry. 

Mr.  Germain  contributed  nothing  to  the  game, 

91 


92  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

but  ate  his  dinner,  or  gazed  solemnly  at  one  speaker 
after  another.  This  was  unusual;  he  was  fond  of 
abstract  discussion,  and  had  his  ideas  about  poetry. 
He  had  his  favourite  practitioners,  too — Virgil,  Pope, 
Gray;  poetry,  for  him,  must  be  elegant  above  all 
things.  Elegant,  fastidious,  deliberately  designed. 
Dante  he  could  not  admire.  Petrarch  and  Tasso 
were  the  Italians,  their  conceits  not  conceited,  for  him. 
He  had  even — but  this  was  a  profound  secret — 
pitched  a  slender  pipe  of  his  own,  and  was  now  re- 
suming the  exercise.  His  vein  was  the  courtly-pas- 
toral. The  nymph  Mero,  let  us  say,  was  sought  by 
the  God  Sylvanus,  who  wooed  her  in  a  well-watered 
vale.  Or  a  young  shepherdess — call  her  Marina — 
was  the  dear  desire  of  Cratylus  the  mature,  who 
offered  her  with  touching  diffidence,  the  well-found 
hearth,  the  stored  gamers,  the  cellar,  for  whose  ripe 
antiquity  (alas!)  he  himself  could  vouch.  The 
maid  was  not  cold;  it  was  himself  who  doubted 
whether  he  were  not  frigid.  He  besought  her  not  to 
despise  his  silvering  beard,  the  furrow  on  his  brow. 
Boys,  urged  he,  are  hot  and  prone;  but  the  wood-fire 
leaps  and  dies,  while  the  steady  glow  of  the  well- 
pressed  peats  endures  until  the  morning,  and  a  little 
breath  revives  all  its  force.  Thus  Cratylus  to  Marina 
in  his  heart. 

The  inexpert  poet  is  not  content  with  numbers; 
as  Miss  de  Speyne  had  said,  he  is  apt  to  probe  what 
he  expounds.  Also,  by  a  merciful  provision  of  our 
mother,  no  man  is  permitted  to  think  himself  ridicu- 
lous, nor  indeed  is  necessarily  so.     The  poets  are 


THE   WELDING   OF   THE   BOLT  93 

right  there.  The  intentions  of  mature  Cratylus  may 
be  as  honourable,  his  raptures  as  true,  his  sighs  as 
deeply  fetched  as  any  of  beardless  Corydon's.  Only, 
when  desire  fades  in  us,  o'  God's  name  let  us  die. 
Our  friend  here  cried  in  his  heart  that  his  had  never 
bloomed  before.  Spell-bound  to  a  beautiful  vision, 
he  walked  enraptured  in  the  light  of  it,  travelling  up 
the  path  of  its  beam,  sighing,  not  that  it  should  be  so 
long,  but  that  his  steps  should  lag  so  short  of  his 
urgency.  And  to  the  lips  of  his  heart — as  it  were — 
recurred  and  recurred  the  dear,  familiar  phrases, 
true  once  and  true  now  to  who  so  love.  The  well- 
found  hearth,  and  One  beside  it:  surely,  happily 
there!  Denied  him  for  so  long;  now  in  full  sight! 
The  buffeting,  windy  world  outside,  the  good  door 
barred,  the  mddy  fire,  the  welcoming  arms,  the  low 
glad  voice!  Happy,  studious  evenings — an  arm 
within  an  arm,  a  petition  implied,  and  a  promise — a 
held-out  hand,  a  little  hand  caught  within  it — a  prayer, 
an  exchange  of  vow^s,  a  secret  shared — a  secret,  a  w^on- 
derful  hope!  Happy  Cratylus,  happy  poet!  Nay,  it 
was  not  too  late  for  that — not  too  late,  please  God! 

In  his  now  exalted  mood,  every  faculty  shared  the 
high  tension.  His  reasoning  was  exalted,  and  told 
him  that  his  deep  distrust  of  his  own  class  proceeded 
from  deep  experience.  The  fierce,  querulous,  and 
dead  beauty  of  Lady  Diana  passed  over  the  scene; 
palely  and  feverishly  she  hunted  her  pleasures;  and 
iEgisthus  stalked  behind,  attentive,  to  whisper  in  her 
ear  at  the  ofi'ered  moment.  No  hopes  could  be  justi- 
fied under  the  white  light  of  that  torturing  memory. 


94  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

He  knew  very  well,  he  told  himself,  that  no  woman 
of  his  daily  acquaintance  could  give  him  what  he 
longed  for.  In  her  degree  each  and  every  one  must 
be  for  him  a  Diana  Wymondesley — with  her  friend- 
ships, connexions,  thousand  calls  this  way,  that 
way,  every  way,  any  way;  with  her  flying,  restless 
crowded  life,  winters  in  Cairo,  summers  in  Cowes, 
Scottish  autumns,  Sicilian  springs.  When  could  she 
be  at  home?  And  he,  with  his  longings  for  the 
hearth,  that  infinitely  holy  place,  must  stand,  be 
courteous,  play  the  great  gentleman,  flog  himself  to 
Cairo,  Biarritz,  Algiers,  and  feel  behind  the  mask  he 
wore  the  taloned  bird  rake  at  his  vitals.  Never,  never 
more!  Life  is  to  be  lived  once,  and  to  each  his  ap- 
pointed way;  appointed  if  you  must,  chosen  if  you 
can.  Ah,  me,  if  choice  were  his  at  this  late  hour! 
His  heart  was  beating  high  as  he  rose  in  his  place 
for  the  ladies  to  leave  the  dining-room.  Miss  de 
Speyne,  presuming  on  familiar  use  or  her  preroga- 
tive, sailed  out  first,  a  very  Juno;  Mrs.  James  lin- 
gered for  a  parting  shot  at  her  Rector. 

^'You  may  be  right,  James — it  is  not  for  me  to 
contradict  you.  But  Tristram  is  better  at  Pau  than 
here;  and  I  have  good  reasons  for  saying  so."  The 
Rector  bowed  to  his  wife,  and  for  once  approved 
Hertha's  easy  manners. 

Returned  to  the  Rectory,  when  the  Rector  had 
gone  to  smoke  his  cigar,  Mr.  Germain  had  a  little 
conversation  with  Mrs.  James.  If  he  did  not  delib- 
erately seek,  he  deliberately  provoked  the  turn  it 
took.    But  it  began  innocently  enough. 


THE   WELDING   OF  THE  BOLT  95 

She  asked  him  his  time  of  departure  on  Monday, 
supposing  that  he  must  go,  and  tailed  off  into  to- 
morrow's engagements.  It  was  now  that  his  face 
went  a  thought  greyer,  and  that  a  shade  more  stiffen- 
ing thrilled  his  spine.  A  visit  to  certain  Manwarings 
was  proposed  for  the  afternoon.  '^Your  morning 
you  claim,  I  imagine?"  she  had  said. 

^^No,"  he  replied,  *^I  gladly  make  it  yours.  To- 
morrow's, that  is,"  and  there  he  paused,  and  she 
waited. 

He  took  up  his  tale  greatly.  "On  Saturday  my 
morning  is  arranged  for.  I  have,  as  you  know,  taken 
upon  myself  to  be  interested  in  the  concerns  of  your 
Miss  Middleham" — he  marked,  but  chose  not  to  re- 
mark, the  flash  in  the  lady's  eyes.  Her  Miss  Mid- 
dleham L  "To-morrow  I  am  to  be  allowed  yet  further 
into  them;  matters  of  moment,  perhaps — I  know 
not.    That  is  for  Saturday,  at  eleven." 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  James — and  the  vowel  held  a 
volume,  held  it  tightly. '  "Really  she  ought  to  be 
wtry  much  obliged  to  you." 

"Not  at  all.  The  obligation,  in  my  view,  is  quite 
the  other  way.  At  my  time  of  life,  my  dear  Con- 
stantia,  we  are  apt  to  plume  ourselves  up()n  the 
confidences  of  the  young.    I  should  not  venture ^" 

"The  confidences  of  that  particular  young  per- 
son," said  Mrs.  James  with  point — a  dry  point — 
"are  likely  to  be  modified  on  this  occasion.  But  if 
she  should  happen  to  be  unreserved,  I  could  wish 
you  would  use  your  influence  for  her  good." 

"Doubtless,"  he  agreed,  "that  is  my  sincere  desire. 


96  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

If  you  could  suggest  to  me  any  direction  in  which 
my  services " 


Mrs.  James  looked  at  him,  and  he,  while  meeting 
her  gaze,  must  needs  remark  upon  her  hard-rimmed 
eyes.  It  was  as  if  they  had  been  set  in  metal.  ^'We 
spoke  of  Tristram  at  dinner — I  don't  know  whether 
you  heard.  I  said  that  he  was  better  even  at  Pau 
with  poor  Lord  Bramleigh  just  now,  than  here. 
You  may  not  have  heard  me." 

Mr.  Germain  blinked.  "I  am  not  sure  that  I 
should  have  conceived  you,  had  I  overheard  the  re- 
mark. You  paint  Misperton  in  dark  colours,  if  what 
I  have  heard  of  young  Bramleigh  be  true.  And — to 
resume  the  first  subject  of  our  conversation " 

"Unfortunately  the  subjects  are  connected,"  said 
Mrs.  James,  and  saw  him  flinch.  "Tristram  is  old 
enough  to  look  after  himself;  but  surely  you  will  agree 
that  his  companionship  is  not  the  best  for  a  girl  in 
her  position." 

He  had  not  for  nothing  worn  a  mask  some  twenty 
years  of  his  life.  Wearers  of  these  defences  become 
very  expert  by  use,  and  can  turn  them  against  them- 
selves at  will.  Mrs.  James  got  no  joy  out  of  her 
revelation,  and  he  little  pain;  he  gave  her  a  stately 
bow. 

"I  entirely  agree,"  he  said. 

"Of  course,  of  course."  She  accepted  him,  but 
went  on;  "we  cannot  but  regret  it,  those  of  us  who 
take  an  interest.  Unfortunately  I  can  hardly  speak 
to  her  upon  such  a  subject,  since  I  have  no  authority 
over  her — and  James  will  not.    He  is  pleased  to  be 


THE  WELDING   OF   THE   BOLT  97 

diverted  at  what  I  have  to  tell  him — you  know  his 
way.  I  don't  know  how  far  your  kindly  inqui- 
ries 

"We  have  hardly  reached  her  matrimonial  proj- 
ects," said  Mr.  Germain,  so  simply  that  Mrs. 
James  lost  her  head. 

*' Matrimony!  A  nursery  governess!  My  dear 
John,  pray  don't  misunderstand  me."  He  con- 
tinued to  blink  urbanely  at  her,  master  now  of  the 
position. 

"I  wish  to  avoid  precisely  that.  Little  claim  as  I 
have  to  discuss  such  matters  with  Miss  Middleham, 
I  should  certainly  ask  her  to  pause  if  I  believed  that 
she  could  accept  the  addresses  of  a  young  man  like 
Tristram.    Perhaps  I  am  prejudiced — but " 

"Tristram,"  said  Mrs.  James  tartly,  "is  as  likely 
to  marry  Mary  Middleham  as  you  are." 

"Is  he,  though?"  he  said,  with  a  little  jocularity. 
But  he  blinked  again. 

From  the  chamber  of  the  beglamoured  Cratylus 
I  may  pass  to  that  of  his  Mero — or  Marina,  if  you 
prefer  it — who  (with  no  Manwarings  in  prospect  to 
afford  distraction)  had  a  day  of  routine  to  go  through 
before  the  interview  could  be  reached.  There  was 
little  in  this  to  fix  her  mind  or  woo  it  back  fromi  stray- 
ing into  the  vague.  It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  to 
find  her  on  the  morrow  of  her  midnight  adventure— 
a  note  of  apology  and  excuse  despatched  to  The 
Sanctuary — snug  in  her  bed  at  an  unwonted  hour, 
nursing  her  cheek  and  remembrances  together^  as 
much  alive  to  the  fact  that  she  had  been  interested 


98  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

yesterday  as  to  those  which  promised  her  that  she 
was  to  be  absorbed  to-morrow. 

And  then,  as  she  lay  wide-eyed,  dreaming,  won- 
dering, softly-smiHng,  quick-breathing,  her  wide 
horizons  opened  up  to  her  by  flashes,  or  were  clouded 
up  suddenly,  enfolded  in  the  rosy  mists  of  conscious 
pursuit.  To  know,  as  she  must,  that  her  company 
was  desired,  courted,  deeply  considered  by  a  consid- 
erable gentleman  could  not  but  give  a  tinge  of  rose 
to  her  dream-senses.  The  warm  fleeces  enwrapped 
her,  hugged  her;  they  could  be  felt,  they  made  her 
cheeks  tingle  as  her  blood  coursed  free.  Against  this 
passive  ecstasy — this  rapture  of  the  chase — there  rose 
in  strife  a  new  feeling,  a  dawning  sense  of  power  to 
judge  and  weigh,  a  discretion  imparted,  a  dignity  of 
choice.  And  as  this  prevailed  and  her  mind  leapt 
back  to  her  friend  of  the  night,  see  the  mists  thin  and 
part  and  grow  pallid;  see  her  caught  breath  and 
brightening  eyes  as  she  strained  to  watch  the  far- 
stretching  plains  of  life,  the  distant  seas,  blue  hills — 
wonderful  vistas,  beholding  which  she  seemed  to  lay 
her  hand  upon  the  pivot  of  the  world.  The  battle 
raged  over  her  form  supine.  Like  a  dormouse  in  her 
nest  she  lay,  but  within  her  breast,  within  her  mind, 
the  armies  engaged  swept  forward  and  back. 

A  day  of  this  must  not  be,  and  could  not.  She 
must  have  stimulant,  she  must  have  excitants,  must 
do  something  or  go  mad.  She  recollected  with  a 
thumping  heart  that  she  might  see  her  friend  again. 
She  was  to  report  herself  and  her  ankle;  he  had 
asked  her  and  she  had  promised  to  come.    There  was 


THE  WELDING  OF  THE  BOLT  99 

an  appointment.  True,  it  had  been  for  Sunday — 
but  what  were  Sundays  to  him  ?  It  might  be  to-day. 
As  she  dressed  she -dallied  with  the  temptation,  and 
before  she  had  finished  she  knew  that  she  had  fallen. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  she  sprang  into  her  saddle, 
eager  for  the  encounter.  Her  ankle  was  forgotten; 
she  felt  strong  and,  exulting  in  her  strength,  cleared 
the  miles  with  that  sense  of  delighted  effort  which  a 
bicycle  only  can  give — because  it  replies  so  readily. 
Her  heart  beat  high  as  from  Chidiocks,  that  suburb 
of  Misperton,  she  saw  the  white  hill  atop  of  which  the 
Common  began.  She  walked  it  deliberately,  holding 
herself  back  that  she  might  play  with  the  pleasure 
promised — a  pleasure  none  the  worse,  mind  you,  for 
being  perfectly  lawful.  This  man  was  her  friend, 
and  she  had  never  had  a  man  for  a  friend  before.  She 
felt  good,  and  very  strong. 

There,  then,  was  the  white  peak  of  the  tent. 
There,  too,  was  the  tilt-cart!  So  he  was  waiting  for 
her  promise  to  be  kept!  There  again  was  the  back 
of  the  prowling  Ghost.  Bingo  ran  on  three  legs  across 
the  road — dear  Bingo!  And  there  was  her  friend! 
Yes,  but  he  was  not  alone.  She  was  dismayed — had 
not  expected  that.  A  horseman  talked  to  him  from 
the  road — a  horseman?  Ah,  no,  it  was  a  horse- 
woman ;  and  her  friend  (if  she  might  continue  to  think 
him  so)  stood  there  in  an  animated  discussion,  and 
declaimed  upon  a  paper  in  his  hand.  Her  heart  fell 
far,  but  she  pressed  on.  Nothing  in  the  world — 
neither  tact,  nor  delicacy,  nor  fear  of  detection-could 
have  stopped  her.    She  must  know  more  at  any  cost. 


lOO  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

She  went  as  far  as  she  dared  by  the  road,  and  then, 
dismounting,  moved  on  to  the  turf  and  dropped  her 
bicycle.  Screened  by  furze-bushes  she  got  to  within 
fifty,  thirty,  twenty  yards,  and  there  stopped,  knelt 
down,  and  watched  with  intensely  bright  eyes.  The 
mounted  lady  was  Miss  de  Speyne,  the  Honourable 
Hertha  de  Speyne,  proud  daughter  of  the  Canta- 
cutes,  a  personage  so  far  out  of  her  reach  that  her 
least  act  was  acceptable  as  a  stroke  of  great  Fate — a 
sunstroke  or  a  thunderbolt.    Alas,  for  her  joys! 

But  her  friend,  no  less  easy  by  day  than  by  night, 
in  one  company  than  another,  held  in  his  hand  a 
drawing — as  she  guessed — and  talked  vehemently 
of  it.  She  could  hear  his  words — '^It's  not  bad — it's 
not  at  all  bad — I  admit  it;  and  thanks  very  much 
for  allowing  me.  But  if  you  say  that  of  a  drawing, 
you  say  the  cruellest,  worst — unless  you  call  it  clever. 
It  wants  breadth,  it  wants  maitrise;  it  wants,  as  all 
half-art  wants,  the  disdainful  ease  of  Nature,  to  pro- 
duce what  Nature  can  never  produce.  There's  a  fine 
line  in  Baudelaire — well,  never  mind  that.  No — 
I've  done  better  than  this.  I  did  some  Savernake 
things  which  pleased  me — trees  and  glades,  evening 
things.  We  had  some  yellow  skies,  shot  green — 
wonderful,  wonderful!  I  got  some  poetry  into  them. 
But  this" — he  gave  it  a  flick  of  the  fingers — "this  is 
rather  smug,  you  know." 

''I  don't  think  it  smug,"  said  Miss  de  Speyne, 
with  her  great  air  of  finality.    "I  like  it." 

*'Glad  of  that,  anyhow,"  was  the  artist's  thanks- 
giving.   ''Your  praise  is  worth  having." 


THE  WELDING  OF  THE  BOLT     loi 

"IVe  worked  very  hard,"  the  lady  said;  "but  I'm 
afraid  I  can  talk  better  than  I  paint." 

''Ah,  we  all  do  that." 

''Yes,"  she  said,  "that's  the  worst  of  it."  They 
paused:  she  patted  her  horse,  he  looked  with  nar- 
rowed eyes  into  the  weather.  Presently  she  said, 
"I  suppose  you  couldn't  come  and  see  my  things — 
and  bring  some  of  your  own — could  you,  do  you 
think?  My  people  would  be  delighted."  He  looked 
at  her,  considering. 

"So  should  I  be — charmed.  Yes,  I'll  come  if  you 
mean  it.    When?" 

"Of  course  I  mean  it,"  Miss  de  Speyne  rejoined. 
"Could  you  come  to  luncheon,  the  day  after  to-mor- 
row?   That's  Sunday." 

"I  know  it  is,"  he  said  with  a  laugh.  "What  a 
heathen  you  think  me!  Yes,  I'll  certainly  come. 
But — where  are  you,  exactly?" 

"Misperton  Brand — Misperton  Park.  You  go 
through  the  village,  and  a  little  way  beyond  the 
Rectory  you  come  to  a  lodge." 

"Oh,  I  know  it!"  Then  he  laughed  at  his  mem- 
ories. "I'll  tell  you  afterwards — after  luncheon. 
Thanks,  I'll  come.  But  I  must  be  back  pretty  early 
in  the  afternoon." 

"Your  own  time,  of  course."  She  gathered  up  her 
reins.  "Till  Sunday,"  she  said  with  a  nod.  He 
bowed — hatless  as  before.  Miss  de  Speyne  pushed 
homeward ;  and  Mary  Middleham,  with  hot  splashes 
of  colour  in  her  cheeks,  returned  to  her  fallen  bicycle, 
and  never  looked  behind. 


I02  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

How  much  the  grave  benevolence  of  Mr.  Germain 
may  have  gained  by  this  little  contretemps  we  may 
guess.  Broad  vistas,  after  all,  are  very  well  indeed 
for  the  robust;  they  are  bracing  and  tonic.  But  u  I 
am  to  be  snug,  give  me  rosy  mists. 


X 

CRATYLUS    WITH    MARINA:     THE    INCREDIBLE    WORD 

Upon  the  day  designed  by  highest  Heaven — as 
we  are  led  to  suppose — they  took  the  way  of  Misper- 
ton  Park,  the  enamoured  gentleman  and  the  lady. 
They  sat  under  the  famous  Royal  Oak — a  shade 
with  which  she  was,  we  know,  familiar — Cratylus 
talked,  Marina  sat  modestly  listening.  If  he  saw  her 
the  spirit  of  the  tree — the  peering  Dryad  Mero 
caught  and  held  to  his  words,  it's  all  one.  Her  sim- 
ple allure,  her  dainty  reserves  had  ravished  his 
senses;  the  tinge  of  sunburn  in  her  ckeeks,  the  glint 
of  conscious  pride  in  her  eyes,  beat  back  like  blown 
flame  upon  his  blood.  That  fired  his  brain.  In  a 
word,  he  loved,  therefore  he  believed. 

He  spoke  of  himself  to-day,  of  his  youth  and  mar- 
riage. Lady  Diana  was  not  named,  but  her  knife 
under  the  cloak  was  implied.  Sadly,  yet  without 
complaint,  he  related  the  ossifying  of  all  his  generous 
hopes.  *^This,"  he  said,  'Svas  long  ago,  but  the 
dead  cannot  all  at  once  be  hidden  under  the  turf. 
I  have  been  ten  years  long  at  a  burying,  and  now 
have  done.    What  remain  to  me  of  years,  I  know  not 

truly;  but  they  will  be  the  more  precious  if  they  are 

103 


I04 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


to  be  few.  I  believe  that  I  am  very  capable  of  hap- 
piness— perhaps  even  of  bestowing  it.  My  affairs 
are  in  good  order;  I  have  been  fortunate,  as  you 
knovv^,  in  worldly  respects.  A  childless  widower,  I 
pick  up  my  life  again  at  fifty  where  I  left  it  at  five- 
and-twenty.  And  I  tell  myself — I  have  told  myself 
but  newly — that  I  may  not  be  too  late." 

To  this  sort  of  soliloquy,  to  the  grave  voice  that 
rehearsed  it,  she  had  nothing  to  say.  He  found  that 
he  must  import  her  bodily  into  his  conversation. 

"For  one  thing,''  he  continued,  after  a  pause  of 
exploration,  "I  now  have  leisure,  as  you  have  seen, 
to  interest  myself  in  my  neighbours,  and  have  de- 
rived so  much  pleasure  from  it  that  I  am  deeply 
grateful  to  those  who  have  indulged  me.  You  are 
one.  I  think  that  you  must  have  remarked  what 
happiness  your  society  and  your  confidence  have 
been  to  me."  Her  shamefastness,  which  tied  her 
tongue,  compelled  him  to  probe.  "Have  you  not 
seen  that?" 

She  murmured  that  he  had  been  very  kind,  that 
she  was  grateful.  "Not  so,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "but 
the  persons  must  be  transposed.  The  kindness  is 
yours,  the  obligation  upon  me.  Come!  Can  you 
not  tell  me  that  you  have  understood  me?  Can  you 
not  let  me  be  satisfied  that  you  realize  your  own 
benevolence?  If  you  cannot,  I  must  withhold  what 
I  was  about  to  say  to  you.  I  should  want  for  cour- 
age. I  must  ask  for  your  assurance.  You  will  not 
refuse  it?" 

Exciting,  mystifying  talk!    She  dared  not  look  up 


CRATYLUS   WITH  MARINA  105 

— but  she  asked  him,  What  it  was  that  she  was  to 
tell  him  ? 

He  luxuriated  in  her  bashfulness.  *'Why,  my 
dearest  child/'  he  said,  very  near  to  her,  "I  want  to 
know  whether  you  believe  me  happy  in  your  com- 
pany?" 

She  would  not  look  at  him,  but  she  said  *'I  hope 
that  you  like  me — I  do  hope  that." 

Then  he  took  her  hand  and  held  it  in  both  of  his 
own.  He  gazed  tenderly  down  upon  her  hanging 
head — not  one  meek  beauty  of  her  escaped  him, 
neither  of  burning  cheek,  curved  lashes,  of  heavy 
eyelids,  rising  breast.  ''Then,  dear  child,  I  will  tell 
you  plainly  that  I  love  you  most  sincerely;  that  you 
have  my  heart,  such  as  it  is,  in  your  little  hands — 
just  as  certainly  as  one  of  those  hands  is  here  in 
mine.  I  have  told  you  the  truth  about  myself — what 
I  hoped  to  be,  what  I  was,  what  I  am  become.  And 
now,  if  you  can  repay  that  confidence  with  a  confi- 
dence, I  shall  be  satisfied  indeed.  But  I  must  ask 
you  again.  Can  you  value  the  love  of  a  man  twice 
your  age  ?  Remember,  I  shall  not  be  hurt  if  you  tell 
me  that  you  cannot.  I  shall  respect  your  confidence, 
whatever  it  may  be;  and  shall  never  trouble  you 
again.  .  .  .  What  do  you  tell  me  now,  Mary?" 

She  had  started  visibly  at  the  word  "love,"  and 
had  been  revealed  to  him  for  a  flash,  which  gave  him 
the  value  of  her  wide  eyes,  and  of  the  flying  colour, 
which  now  left  her  very  pale,  then  lapped  her  in 
flame  again,  and  showed  her  like  a  red  rose.  A  flash 
only;  for  immediately  after  she  had  bowed  her  head 


io6  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

SO  deeply  that  her  chin  nearly  touched  her  bosom, 
and  she  could  have  smelt  the  knot  of  carnations 
fastened  there.  Her  hand  was  still  his  prisoner  but 
she  would  have  freed  it  if  she  could ;  for  now  she  was 
startled  indeed.  Though  she  had  been  forewarned, 
her  armour  was  not  on.  This  word  was  a  dart,  and 
stabbed  her  deep.  The  incredible  thing  had  come 
to  pass. 

She  had  been  prepared  for  unbounded  sentiment, 
for  tenderness,  for  the  captured  hand;  she  had  fore- 
seen a  breathless  moment  or  so,  a  stoop,  and  a  kiss. 
Such  a  string  of  episodes — just  that  string  of  them — 
would  not  have  been  strange  to  her  by  any  means, 
and  would  have  satisfied  her  anticipations  perfectly. 
She  would  have  been  elated,  would  have  made  much 
of  it  in  her  mind,  might  possibly,  after  some  interval, 
in  some  tender  hour,  have  confided  it  to  a  bosom 
friend.  On  many  dull  days  it  would  have  shone  like 
a  lamp,  assuring  her  of  substantial  things,  of  honour 
done,  of  a  positive  achievement  of  hers — to  have  won 
such  condescension  from  a  great  gentleman.  Here 
had  been — you  may  say — a  creditable  triumph  for 
the  Middlehams.  But  a  declaration  in  so  many 
words — love  offered  and  asked  again;  what  could 
this  mean  but  one  astounding  thing?  She  was 
frightened,  and  that's  a  fact;  frightened  out  of  her 
wits.  The  averting  of  her  head,  which  so  enchanted 
Mr.  Germain,  was  of  a  piece  with  ostrich  strategy. 
If  she  could  have  run  and  hidden  underground  she 
would  have  done  it.  For  what  can  that  word  love 
from  such  a  man  mean  but  marriage?    I  beg  the 


CRATYLUS  WITH  MARINA  107 

lady's  pardon  for  leaving  her  hand  in  so  embarrassing 
a  case,  her  head  so  downcast,  her  breath  so  trouble- 
some— but  her  difficulties  must  be  faced. 

Marriage,  as  she  had  been  taught  this  world's 
economy,  is  the  be-all  and  end-all  for  women  here. 
It  is  almost  a  disgrace,  and  quite  a  disaster  for  a  girl 
to  slip  into  womanhood  and  not  be  wedded.  The 
enormous  seriousness,  then,  of  the  affair!  All  men 
talk  to  women  of  love,  and  a  girl  had  need  be  quick 
to  discern  which  kind  is  the  staple,  which  kind  is 
aimed  at  lip-service,  which  at  life-service.  There 
will  be  both  to  reckon  with ;  the  two  rarely  coincide. 
Many  a  young  man  will  seek  the  flower  of  a  girl's 
lips,  sup  of  it  at  ease,  and  content  himself — ah,  and 
content  her,  too;  whereas  your  serious  wooer,  with 
his  eye  upon  comfort,  a  foothold,  a  mother  for  his 
children  and  a  stay  for  himself,  may  well  have  other 
things  to  think  of — a  promotion,  a  partnership,  a 
chance  abroad,  a  legacy,  a  desirable  comer  house. 
Care  will  tighten  his  lips  too  hard  for  kissing.  The 
future  will  be  all  that  he  reads  after  in  your  eyes. 
If  he  kisses,  it  will  be  by  custom  as  likely  as  not ; 
don't  I  say  that  he  will  have  other  things  to  think  of? 
Now,  Mr.  Germain  had  not  kissed  Mary,  though,  to 
be  sure,  he  had  spoken  of  his  love.  And  yet — and 
yet — yes,  he  wanted  to  marry  her.  Frightened  ?  Yes, 
she  was  frightened ;  but  she  was  full  of  thought,  too. 

She  knew  very  well  that  her  ways  were  not  those 
of  the  world  above  her,  the  world  of  the  upper  air, 
where  Honourable  Mrs.  Germains,  Cantacutes,  Du- 
plessis,  and  the  like  talked  familiarly  together  of  par- 


io8  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

ties  and  public  affairs.  There,  as  she  saw  the  heights 
the  women  were  so  obviously  desirable  that  there 
was  nothing  for  them  to  do  but  pick  up  their  happi- 
ness as  they  chose,  and  as  their  due.  There  could 
surely  be  no  anxiety  there,  no  whispered  debates  over 
what  he  meant,  or  had  looked,  or  was  thinking.  Their 
lives  were  full  to  brimming  point  from  girlhood  up; 
everything  fell  into  their  laps,  or  could  be  had  for 
money.  Nothing  surprised  her  more  in  the  lives  of 
her  betters  than  the  frequency  with  which  they 
bought — except  the  case  of  the  transaction.  One 
even  paid  for  work,  if  one  happened  to  be  in  the 
mood  to  work — as  when  Miss  de  Speyne,  desiring  to 
paint,  hired  an  artist  to  go  about  with  her,  open  a 
white  umbrella  here  and  there,  and  paint  beside  her. 
Grey,  grey  and  hard  seemed  her  outlook  beside  theirs, 
when  (as  now)  she  was  driven  to  compare  them. 
And  here — O  wonderful  fate! — was  this  brimming, 
crowded  life  opening  to  her;  to  her,  Mary  Middle- 
ham,  who  had  worked  for  pence  a  year,  and  fended 
for  herself,  and  had  adventures  from  her  seventeenth 
to  this  her  twenty-fifth  summer.  Terrible,  wonder- 
ful thing!  She  had  neither  a  word  to  say,  nor  a  con- 
nected thought.  She  wanted  to  hide  her  burning 
cheeks,  felt  that  she  must  never  look  up  again — and 
all  this  while  Mr.  Germain  held  her  cold  hand.  It 
felt  dead  to  her:  and  what  must  he  be  thinking  of 
her? 

He  was  very  patient.  "Well,  my  dear,  well!''  was 
the  note  he  harped  upon,  and  (how  he  could  read 
you!)    "Poor  child!    So  I  have  terrified  you."    This 


CRATYLUS   WITH   MARINA 


109 


idea  seemed  in  some  way  to  please  him,  for  he  ex- 
pressed it  several  times;  and,  as  he  held  her  hand  in 
one  of  his,  patted  it  with  the  other — hoping,  it  would 
seem,  to  make  her  as  comfortable  as  he  was  himself. 

"Am  I  to  be  answered,  Mary?  Have  you  nothing 
to  say  to  me?"  She  had  not,  for  her  life;  she  must 
have  time.    This  she  forced  herself  to  explain. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you — I  don't,  in- 
deed." But  he  seemed  to  find  this  quite  as  it  should 
be. 

He  leaned  a  little  towards  her.  '^  Shall  I  leave 
you ?"  he  asked.  *^ Would  you  wish  to  think  it  over? 
I  will  do  all  I  can  to  make  it  easy  for  you." 

"Yes,  please — no,  I  mustn't  trouble  you.  I 
mean —  Oh,  Mr.  Germain,  what  ought  I  to  say?" 
The  russet  wonder  of  her  eyes  was  upon  him,  filled 
his  being.    He  saw  her  quivering  lip,  v/et  from  biting. 

"Dearest  child,"  he  urged  her,  "dearest  child, 
consult  your  heart.  If  you  think  that  you  can  be 
content  with  me — if  you  can  believe  what  I  tell 
you " 

She  looked  at  him  nov/  as  though  he  had  hurt  her. 
"I  mustn't  believe  you — I  ought  not — I  know  I 
ought  not.  I  am  not  fit  for  you — not  good 
enough — "  She  stammered,  reproached  him  with 
her  great  eyes  for  a  beating  second — and  then  the 
storm  broke  and  swept  away  her  little  defences. 

She  cried  in  his  arms,  for  he  took  her  there;  he 
tasted  her  tears,  for  he  began  to  kiss  them  away.  At 
first  she  tried  to  disengage  herself,  but  soon  gave 
over  the  struggle,  not  daring  to  prolong  a  losing  game. 


no  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

And  it  was  a  comfort,  too,  you  see,  to  have  strife 
done  with.  She  hid  her  face,  however,  in  his  arm. 
He  kissed  her  hair. 

When  she  was  quieted  he  talked  to  her — if  you 
can  call  that  talk  which  a  man  might  use  to  a  pretty 
dog,  a  leveret,  or  (if  he  were  with  it  alone)  to  a  baby ; 
foolish,  affectionate,  happy  nonsense,  it  was,  charged 
full  with  pity  for  a  creature  so  young  and  so  simple. 
He  soothed  and  touched  her  both;  never  had  she 
dreamed  of  such  kindness  as  this,  nor  of  the  comfort 
of  it.  So  presently  she  lay  still,  looking  wistfully  out 
upon  the  green  curves  of  the  park,  the  dark  masses 
of  the  summer  trees,  the  tall  deep  bracken,  and,  afar 
a  herd  of  deer  feeding,  twinkling  their  scuts  as  they 
moved  slowly  across  the  sunlit  turf.  Above  her  head 
she  heard  the  murmur  of  his  kind  voice,  hardly  dis- 
tinguished the  words  he  used,  but  judged  them  gen- 
erally to  be  all  love  and  gentleness.  What  misgivings 
she  may  have  had  fell  from  her,  as  this  peace  claimed 
its  rights.  She  thought  that  she  could  have  stayed 
like  this  for  ever;  she  thought  that  thus  indeed  it  was 
to  be.  This,  this  was  love,  this  how  gentlemen  loved. 
What  a  life  was  to  be  hers! 

She  sighed  and  snuggled  more  deeply  into  her 
luxury;  his  heart  beat  to  feel  the  pressure  of  her. 
To  doubt  himself — whether  he  would  fail  of  utter 
love  and  devotion  for  a  confidence  so  exquisite  as 
this — would  have  been  a  blasphemy.  ''My  darling 
girl,  my  darling  love,  my  Mary — "  and,  as  she 
looked  timidly  up  and  shyly  smiled  her  trust  into  his 
face,  he  bent  over  her  transported,  met  and  kissed 


CRATYLUS  WITH  MARINA  m 

her  lips.  She  thrilled  responsive  and,  smiling  still, 
closed  her  eyes.  '^God  helping  me,"  he  said  with  a 
sob,  "you  shall  never  regret  this  day.  .  .  .'* 

For  their  loitered  progress  homewards  he  put  her 
hand  into  his  arm,  and  it  lay  there  so  long  as  they 
were  safe  within  the  park.  She  hardly  spoke,  and 
only  looked  at  him  for  seconds  at  a  time.  Her  re- 
sponses, when  he  called  her  by  fond  names  or 
breathed  some  assurance  of  his  love  and  happiness, 
were  little  pressures  of  the  arm,  flutterings  of  the 
eyelids,  ghosts  of  smiles  scarcely  to  be  seen;  but  he 
was  perfectly  satisfied,  the  good  man,  sailing  along 
upon  his  clouds,  which  were  rosy  and  golden  at  the 
edges.  He  took  her  stoutly  to  her  own  door  and 
left  her  there — would  not  venture  himself  within  the 
sacred  threshold.  "I  shall  see  you  again  before  I  go, 
my  dearest.  To-morrow  I  will  come — ah,  but  you 
have  given  me  wonderful  to-morrows!  You  have 
made  me  happier  than  I  ever  dared  hope  to  be.  I 
will  write  to  you,  of  course,  from  London — and  do 
you  write  me  again.  Write  me  fully — confide  in  me 
— have  no  anxieties  which  I  may  not  share.  I  call 
upon  your  parents  in  the  course  of  the  week.  Dear- 
est, will  you  not  love  me?" 

She  was  now  much  moved;  he  might  have  seen 
her  struggle  to  express  herself — her  bosom  heaved 
in  tumult  and  distress — a  cry  escaped  her,  "Oh,  you 
are  good,  you  are  good !  How  can  I  help  liking — how 
can  I  like  you  enough?"    Love,  she  dared  not  say. 

Respect  for  her  held  him  in  check;  he  must  con- 
tent himself  with  her  hand,  which,  bare-headed,  he 


112  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

kissed.  "  I  am  more  than  happy — I  am  exalted.  Adieu, 
my  love,  adieu !  Thank  God,  your  days  of  servitude 
are  over.    Bid  me  good-bye  now,  and  I  will  go." 

She  hung  her  head,  bashful  again.  He  had  to  in- 
vite her  once  more,  to  draw  her  nearer,  to  stoop  and 
to  whisper  her  name.  Blushing  and  glowing  she 
swayed,  caught  by  the  hand,  and  then,  as  a  sudden 
surge  of  gratitude  swept  over  her,  she  put  her  hand 
upon  his  shoulder  and  leaned  to  him,  looking  up. 

"I  shall  try  to  be  good.  I  am  sure  that  I  love 
you — "  she  faltered;  and  he,  swept  out  of  propriety 
by  her  emotion  and  his  own  in  confluence,  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  At  first  she  clung  to 
him,  and  gave  him  kiss  for  kiss;  but  suddenly  she 
stiffened  and  tried  violently  to  get  free.  He  felt  that 
and  released  her  at  once,  instantly  himself  again. 
In  a  flash  she  vanished.  He  kept  his  hat  in  his  hand 
until  he  was  beyond  the  wicket-gate,  then  w^alked 
back  slowly  to  the  Rectory  luncheon.  He  had  had 
no  eyes  for  the  passing  of  a  tall,  loosely  clad  young 
man,  whose  black,  straight  hair  was  uncovered,  and 
his  black  eyes  sideways  upon  everything,  like  a 
faun's.  He  had  had  other  things  to  do  with  his  eyes 
— besides,  he  was  near-sighted.  But  Mary  had  no- 
ticed, indeed,  and  was  now  standing  in  her  little  dark 
parlour,  in  a  stare,  her  finger  at  her  lip,  her  heart  in 
full  and  open  riot.  He  had  seen  her,  he  must  have 
seen  her — kissing,  being  kissed !  Whatever  happened, 
he  must  hear  her  explanation. 


XI 

COOL   COMFORT 

Satdtiday's  wonders,  Sunday  thrills — with  her 
declared  lover  monumentally  in  the  Rectory  pew 
and  his  relatives  all  unconscious  that  they  were  soon 
to  be  hers  (hers,  Mary  Middleham's:  O  altitiido!) — 
did  not  release  her,  in  her  own  mind,  from  the  prom- 
ise of  Sunday  afternoon.  Not  only  had  she  prom- 
ised, not  only  had  she  something  to  tell  him,  a  solid 
base  for  her  feet  from  which  to  regard  him,  and  a 
sanctuary  in  which  to  hide,  from  which  to  emerge  at 
will,  ready  for  any  encounter;  not  only  so,  but  she 
must  put  herself  right  with  him.  He  had  seen  her, 
must  have  seen  her,  in  a  delicate  situation — nothing 
to  him,  of  course,  but  somehow  everything  to  her. 
She  could  not,  she  said,  afford  that  he  should  deem 
her  a  girl  of  the  sort — to  be  kissed  in  a  doorway  by 
anybody,  gentleman  or  no  gentleman.  There  were 
reasons — special  reasons  for  it ;  and  since,  as  the  fact 
was,  these  reasons  did  not  now  seem  as  cogent  as  they 
had  yesterday,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  cry 
them  over  and  over  to  herself.  ^^  Engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried— engaged  to  be  married — to  Mr.  Germain — to 

Mr.  Germain  of  Southover  House.    And  he  loves 

113 


114  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

me  dearly — and  I  love  him."  So  she  pedalled  and 
sang. 

Racing  with  her  thoughts,  the  bicycle  took  her  to 
the  common  of  Mere  that  blazing  Sunday  afternoon. 
His  eyes  looked  up  from  their  work,  twinkled  and 
laughed  at  her.  *'So  it's  you,  then!  I  thought  you 
wouldn't  come."  He  was  mending  the  sole  of  a  shoe, 
and  resumed  his  cheerful  tap-tapping  directly  he  had 
greeted  her. 

She  stood  leaning  on  her  bicycle,  watching  his 
work.  Her  new  estate  sat  in  full  possession  of  her  eyes. 

'^Yes,  I've  come.    I  couldn't  come  earlier." 

He  paused,  hammer  in  air.  ^^It  was  as  well  you 
didn't.    I've  been  out  lunching." 

She  knew  that  very  well,  and  with  any  other  man 
would  have  pretended  that  she  did  not.  Some  pretty 
fishing  would  have  followed — with  him  out  of  the 
question. 

*'At  the  Park?"  she  said — turning  up  the  state- 
ment into  a  question  by  habit. 

"Precisely  there,"  said  he,  and  returned  to  his 
shoe.  No  fishing  in  such  waters  as  his — but  he 
looked  up  again  presently  with  a  laugh  in  his  eyes. 
**I  met  your  Mr.  Germain,"  he  told  her — and  she 
flamed. 

''I  wanted  to  tell  you — I  felt  that  I  must.  I  am — 
I  was  with  him  when  you " 

He  nodded  over  his  shoe  leather.    ''  So  I  supposed." 

''That  was  Mr.  Germain — you  know " 

''I  know.  I  recognized  him.  I  had  been  to 
reconnoitre  the  Park " 


COOL   COMFORT  115 

She  could  not,  perhaps,  have  accounted  to  herself 
for  her  next  question.  ''Do  you  hke  Miss  de 
Speyne?" 

He  frankly  considered  it  for  a  while,  looking  at  the 
questioner  without  discomfort — to  himself  at  least. 
''Yes.  Yes,  I  think  I  do.  She's  a  fine  young  woman 
and  she's  simple.  She's  herself.  Yes,  I  like  her  very 
much.  She  can  paint  flowers — nothing  else.  But 
she  paints  flowers  well."  So  much  for  the  Honour- 
able Hertha  de  Speyne. 

"May  I  sit  down?"  Mary  was  quite  at  her  ease 
again.  He  jumped  up  with  apologies,  and  brought 
her  cushions.  Bingo  came  up,  wagging  his  back, 
and,  being  caressed,  sat  up  stifHy  beneath  her  hand. 
She  watched  her  friend  fill  his  pipe  and  collected  her- 
self for  her  affair.  Then  she  lowered  her  eyes,  and 
began,  hardening  her  voice. 

"I  came  because  I  wanted  your  opinion,  as  I 
hoped — I  mean  as  I  thought  I  possibly  might.  You 
remember  that  I  said  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you? 
Well,  I  didn't  know  then — for  certain — what  I  should 
have  to  say.    But — "    She  stopped  there. 

"But  now  you  do ?    Is  that  it ? " 

"Yes.    Shall  you  think  it  strange  of  me?" 

"I  don't  know — but  it's  very  unlikely.  If  I  do 
I'll  tell  you.    Goon." 

"It's  about  Mr.  Germain.  Do  you  remember  that 
I  told  you — he'd  been  kind  to  me?" 

His  eyes  were  narrow,  but  upon  her,  critically 
upon  her.  He  smoked  slowly,  as  if  he  enjoyed  every 
fibre  of  the  weed  on  fire. 


Ii6  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"Yes,  I  remember.'' 

"He  was  so  kind — he  went  so  out  of  his  way  to  be 
kind  that  I  was  puzzled.  I  could  not  help  fan- 
cying  '' 

"Naturally.    Well?'' 

She  plunged.    "He  has  asked  me  to  marry  him." 

Her  friend  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  looked 
long  at  it,  and  put  it  back  again. 

"I  saw  that  he  had — yesterday."  He  might  have 
seen  pride  shine  in  her  eyes  at  that  compliment. 
But,  instead  of  looking  for  that,  he  asked,  "And  is 
he  going  to?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  pondering. 

"But  does  he  think  he  is?" 

She  fondled  Bingo,  who  threw  up  his  head,  eyed 
her  gratefully  and  accepted  the  compliment.  Then 
she  answered  him. 

"Yes — I  believe  he  does."  During  the  ensuing 
pause  their  eyes  met  for  a  moment. 

"He's  very  much  in  love  with  the  idea,"  said  the 
gentleman-tinker.  "He  was  highly  uplifted  to-day 
— anybody  could  have  guessed."  He  added,  as  if  to 
himself,  "It  may  do.    It  sometimes  does." 

She  considered  this,  then  threw  up  her  head  and 
was  eloquent.  "It  won't  do — it  can't.  That  makes 
me  unhappy,  instead  of  happy.  I  know  that  it  is  not 
right — whatever  you  may  say  of — of  there  being  no 
classes.  I  feel  that  there  are  classes,  more  than 
enough,  perhaps;  but  there  they  are  and  we  can't 
help  them.  Whatever  you  may  say  about  specimens 
in  boxes,  Mr.  Germain  is  a  gentleman,  and  my  father 


COOL  COMFORT  117 

is  not;  and  his  first  wife  was  a  lady — a  Lady  Diana 
Something — and  his  second,  if  it's  me,  won't  be — but 
just  a  httle  ignorant  person  who  has  worked  for  her 
living  since  she  was  sixteen,  and  seen  all  sorts  of 
people — and — and — done  all  sorts  of  things.  No, 
no,  it  can't  be  right — for  him,  at  any  rate.  How  am 
I  to  satisfy  him,  try  as  I  will?  Why,  there's  Mrs. 
James  at  the  Rectory — she  terrifies  me.  I  feel  like 
a  lump  of  earth  beside  her — and  she  likes  me  to — 
she  looks  and  looks  down  at  me  until  I  do.  And  I 
fight  against  it — I  try  to  meet  her — I  try  to  be  my- 
self, and  to  feel  that  I  am  as  good  as  she  is — and  all 
the  time  I  know  I'm  not.  And  yet — he's  extremely 
kind — nobody  could  have  spoken  more  gently  than 
he  did.  He  made  me  cry — he  did,  you  know.  I 
couldn't  help  it — and  I  had  no  answer  for  him 
and  so — and  so  he  thinks  that  I  shall  marry  him. 
But  I  don't  know  whether  I  dare — I  promise  you  I 
don't." 

He  watched  her  gravely,  nodding  his  head  from 
time  to  time ;  and  at  the  end  he  smiled  doubtfully. 

*'Well,"  he  said,  "and  /  don't  know  whether  you 
dare.  I  don't  know,  you  know,  but  I  should  say  that 
you  could  dare  most  things  you  had  set  your  heart 
on." 

Her  eyes  quickened.  "My  heart  is  not  set  on  it. 
I  was  very  excited  yesterday — any  girl  in  my  position 
would  be — oh,  most  wonderful!  But — if  I  could — 
if  I  dared,  I  should  run  away.    I  promise  you." 

He  regarded  her  kindly.  "Well,  then,"  he  said, 
"Run."    She  stared — their  eyes  met — hers  fell  first. 


Ii8  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"No,  no.  I  mustn't.  He  expects  me  now — besides, 
he  has —    No,  I  belong  to  him  now — if  he  wants  me/' 

The  gentleman-tinker  got  up — appeared  to  be 
annoyed.  He  took  a  stride  or  two  up  and  down  the 
road.  "This  is  against  conscience — good  God,  it's 
against  Nature.  It's  why  I  loathe  marriage,  why  I 
would  never  marry.  It's  all  feudal — it's  the  law  of 
Real  Property.  You  are  in  a  market — he  buys  you 
with  a  kind  word  and  a —  Look  here  now — "  and 
he  faced  her,  frowning.  "Will  nothing  teach  you 
your  value — will  nothing  give  you  respect  for  your- 
self?" He  turned  away  abruptly.  "I  beg  your  par- 
don.   I've  no  right  to  talk  to  you  like  this." 

She  forgot  to  be  involved — forgot  that  she  was 
involved — in  his  condemnation.  "Please  talk  to  me 
— please  to  make  me  understand,"  she  said,  but  he 
wanted  a  good  deal  of  persuasion.  No,  no.  It  has 
nothing  to  do  with  him;  he  should  only  make  mis- 
chief— had  made  too  much  already;  and,  said  he, 
finally,  "I  can't  afford  it.  I  am  rather  prone,  I  be- 
lieve, to  get  interested  in  other  people's  affairs — and 
it  interrupts  my  own  confoundedly." 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said,  prettily  contrite.  He 
bit  his  cheek.  "Not  your  fault,  of  course — all  mine. 
I  got  interested  in  you  when  I  found  you  in  the  wire 
— highly  romantic  that  sort  of  thing.  And — and — 
so  it's  gone  on.  Well — "  He  looked  at  her  anx- 
iously. "Well,  I  shall  do  harm,  I'm  certain;  but  I'll 
tell  you  what  I  think  if  you  insist  on  it."  She  clapped 
her  hands,  glowed  and  sparkled  like  a  diamond. 
She  looked  bewitchingly  pretty. 


COOL   COMFORT  119 

"Please,  please!  I  won't  speak  a  word  until  youVe 
done." 

He  sat,  and  began  slowly. 

"I  stick  to  my  opinion  of  classes,  of  course.  You 
aren't  in  a  position  to  judge;  you've  never  had  a 
ghost  of  a  chance.  As  far  as  men  go,  there  are  only 
two  classes — men  who  can  behave  and  men  who  can't. 
My  father  taught  me  when  I  was  a  boy  to  call  all 
men  men,  and  all  women  ladies.  There  was  the 
man  who  swept  the  crossing,  and  the  man  who  sat 
on  the  Bench;  but  I  remember  that  I  got  into  a  row 
for  talking  about  the  *  woman'  who  sold  matches. 
'All  women  are  ladies  unless  you  know  to  the  con- 
trary,' said  my  father.  'Don't  you  ever  forget  that!' 
And  I  never  did.  If  you'll  forgive  me,  there's  noth- 
ing in  what  you  say  about  your  own  unworthiness 
and  Germain's  magnanimity  except  one  thing — and 
that  is,  that  you,  who  have  everything  to  gain,  are 
the  last  person  to  admit  what  is  so  obviously  true. 
And  you  are  not  quite  honest.  You  don't  fear  your- 
self really — you  are  confident  in  your  inmost  heart 
that  you  can  learn  what  you  suppose  to  be  solemn 
duties.  But — "  He  collected  himself  for  his  But, 
while  she  hung  her  detected  head. 

"But  he,  mind  you,  is  persuaded — and  it's  you 
who  are  helping  him  to  believe — that  he  is  a  superior 
person  doing  you  an  enormous  honour.  He  calls  it 
kindness,  of  course,  and  so  do  you — oh,  so  do  you! 
and  that's  what  he's  in  love  with  mostly — the  idea 
of  exalting  you,  putting  you  on  a  pedestal,  kneeling, 
making  sacrifice,  burning  incense.    He's  full  of  it — 


I20  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

he  was  trembling  with  it  to-day — and  he'll  do  it,  I'm 
certain,  and  then  retire  into  his  inner  chamber  and 
beat  his  breast  and  cry  to  his  soul,  'How  lovely  she 
is — how  sensitive  to  these  wonderful  honours!  I  put 
her  there,  O  God !  I  did  it — under  Thee !  Lord,  I  thank 
Thee  for  this  glorious  work  which  is  mine.'  I  suppose 
you  think  I'm  a  maniac.    I'm  frightfully  sane.  .  .  . " 

"He'll  be  as  happy  as  a  king,  like  his  betters  be- 
fore him,  Cophetua  I.,  Cophetua  11. — the  whole 
dynasty.  That's  his  point  of  view,  you  know,  and 
it's  not  a  bad  one.  It's  very  artistic.  Old  Tennyson 
saw  that.  But  before  you  lend  yourself  to  it — a  girl 
like — well,  any  girl  you  please — I  do  think  you 
should  ask  yourself  where  you  come  in.  How  much 
worship  can  you  stand  ?  How  long  can  you  be  sen- 
sitive to  benefits  and  honours?  How  long  before 
they  become  matters  of  course?  How  long  before 
you  want  the  real  thing?  Because  I  need  not  tell 
you  that  there  is  a  real  thing " 

Had  he  not  broken  off  here  she  would  not  have 
met  his  eyes — nor  he  hers.  The  saying  would  have 
been  merged  in  the  general  drift  of  his  harangue, 
which  was  serious  enough.  But  she  caught  at  the 
break,  caught  at  the  words,  caught  at  the  sense, 
looked  at  him  seriously,  looked  at  him  full.  His  eyes, 
being  upon  her,  met  hers,  and  held  them.  She  was 
confounded.  That  moment  of  interconsciousness 
was  fully  charged :  it  is  much  to  his  credit  that  he 
slipped  out  without  abruptness. 

He  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  road  before  he 
went  on. 


COOL   COMFORT  121 

'^A  man  will  go  through  life  possessed  with  an 
idea,  and  be  absolutely  happy  with  it.  Don't 
have  any  fears  on  his  account.  It  is  all  that  he 
wants:  the  woman's  only  business  is  to  lend  herself 
to  it.  But  we're  considering  the  woman — and  there's 
this  great  difference.  They  don't  like  ideas  at  alL 
They  like  things — that  they  can  touch,  stroke, 
handle,  nurse,  wash  and  dress.  If  you  find  such 
things,  you  are  all  right.    But  if  you  don't " 

And  then  he  stopped — in  spite  of  her.  She  tried 
him  with  a  ''Well,  what  then?"  but  could  get  noth- 
ing more  from  him. 

"Oh,  I  hope  you  will.  Let's  hope  so,"  was  all  he 
would  say. 

She  nursed  her  chin  with  her  hand;  he,  at  his 
length  beside  her,  plucked  at  the  turf.  Too  many 
confidences  had  passed  for  her  to  be  reticent  now. 
"You  say  you  will  never  marry,"  she  began. 

"Never,"  he  said.  "The  state's  impossible,  wrong 
from  the  beginning.  It  puts  the  woman  hopelessly 
in  the  wrong.    It's  monstrous." 

"Then  you  think —  Yes,  I  believe  you  are  right. 
At  any  rate,  I  mustn't  let  Mr.  Germain " 

He  sat  up.  "Look  here,"  he  said.  " Germain  will 
make  you  a  very  good  husband.     He's  a  true  man." 

She  was  busy  with  Bingo,  to  Bingo's  quiet  satis- 
faction.   "Yes,  I'm  sure  of  that.    But " 

Her  tongue  was  tied,  and  so  now  was  his.  The 
ensuing  silence  was  not  comfortable  to  either,  and 
the  instinct  of  a  good  girl  made  her  end  it  at  any  price. 
Rising  sedately,  she  held  out  her  hand. 


122  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"Good-bye — and  thank  you  very  much.  You 
have  made  me  think." 

He  laughed  as  he  shook  hands.  ^^  You  have  made 
me  think,  too.    Good-bye.    All  happiness." 

She  did  not  reply  to  that,  but  said,  '^  We  meet  again, 
I  hope." 

''Sure  to,"  he  said.  *^This  is  an  island."  Then  she 
must  needs  go. 

Of  the  two  of  them  the  man  v^as  the  more  per- 
turbed— but  he  had  his  remedy.  After  a  frowning 
quarter-hour  he  was  up  and  packing  his  tent.  Within 
the  hour  he  was  on  the  road. 

With  her,  no  revolt  against  what  was  to  be.  There 
is  no  revolt  visible  under  the  sun  for  the  poor.  When 
Mr.  Germain  called  the  next  morning  to  bid  her 
farewell  she  received  him  with  all  the  virginal  airs 
of  the  consciously  possessed.  He  measured  her 
fourth  finger.    A  pretty  ceremony. 


XII 

ALARUMS 

Revolt  is,  as  it  always  has  been,  within  easy 
reach  of  the  great ;  but  a  Rector's  wife  should  attend 
upon  her  lord.  The  Hon.  Mrs.  Germain  watched 
her  James's  eyebrow,  waiting  for  the  lift.  It  came, 
and  her  cry  broke  from  her.  ^^  James,  James,  this 
cannot  be  possible!"  She  saw  her  fair  realm  in 
earthquake  and  eclipse. 

The  Rector,  no  less  disturbed,  could  not  for  the 
life  of  him  avoid  his  humour.  *^Alas,  my  dear" — 
one  eyebrow  made  a  hoop  in  his  forehead — "all 
things  are  possible  to  amorous  man.'^ 

"Amorous!"  she  whistled  the  word.  "John — 
and  that  minx!    You  use  horrible  words," 

"Hardly  so,  my  dear.  Not  horrible  in  a  man's 
regard  for  his  wife.    The  state  is  sanctioned." 

She  was  beyond  his  quibbles.  "What  are  we  to 
do?    Heavens  and  earth,  what  can  we  do?" 

He  eyed  his  brother's  letter  ruefully.  "Upon  my 
word,"  he  said,  "this  is  a  facer.  I  could  have  be- 
lieved anything  of  any  man  sooner  than  this  of  him. 
Old  John !    Exactly  double  her  age — and  she  a  quiet 

little  mouse  of  a  girl  out  of  a  cottage.    Woodbine 

123 


124  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

Cottage,  eh?  That's  it,  you  know.  Woodbine  Cot- 
tage and  white  muslin  have  done  it.  Do  you  re- 
member the  valentines  of  our  youth — gauffred  edges, 
a  pathway  to  a  porch — the  linked  couple,  and  the 
little  god  in  the  air,  pink  as  a  shell  ?  White  muslin — 
fatal  wear!  He  sees  her  so  to  all  eternity;  enskied 
and  sainted,  in  muslin  and  a  sash!  Confound  it, 
Constantia,  I  feel  old." 

She  was  beyond  his  whimsies.  *^You  may  be 
thankful  that  you  do.  This  appears  to  me  disgust- 
ing. Have  we  used  him  so  ill  that  he  should  slap  our 
faces?" 

The  Rector  indulged  his  eyebrows  again.  '^Di- 
ana!" he  said. 

She  did  not  defend  that  dead  lady,  but  even  an- 
other Lady  Diana  seemed  more  tolerable  to  Mrs. 
James.  Peccaf or  titer ,  she  could  have  said,  had  she  had 
a  head  for  tags.  Lady  Diana,  sinning  de  race,  would 
have  been  intelligible,  say,  to  the  Cantacutes.  But 
here  was  no  sin,  but  merely  a  squalid  enchantment. 
A  doting  gentleman,  a  peering  little  nobody  in  mus- 
lin—  How  should  this  be  put,  say,  to  the  Canta- 
cutes? Aberration?  Chivalry?  Romance?  Never 
Romance,  precisely  because  that  was  just  what  it  was 
— pitiful  romance.  James  had  hit  it  off  exactly;  it 
was  the  washy,  facile  romance  of  a  sixpenny  valentine, 
of  a  thing  that  housemaids  drink  with  their  eyes. 
Saponaceous — Heavens  and  earth!  Mrs.  James 
lifted  her  hands,  and  let  them  fall  to  her  lap.  "I 
simply  cannot  hold  up  my  head  in  the  village,"  she 
said.    "  James  think  of  the  Cantacutes." 


ALARUMS  125 

"Why  on  earth  should  I  think  of  the  Cantacutes?" 
He  was  testy  under  his  trouble.  "I  have  my  brother 
to  think  of.  He's  been  hasty  over  this — which  is 
most  unlike  him — and  secret  as  well.  I  had  no  no- 
tion any  such  thing  was  going  on,  not  the  least  in  the 
world." 

It  was  Mrs.  James's  duty  to  confess  that  some 
notion  ought  to  have  been  hers.  And  she  did  con- 
fess. "It  so  happens  that  I  was  speaking  to  him  of 
this  girl  the  night  we  dined  at  the  Park.  He  told  me 
that  he  was  interesting  himself  in  her  and  I  asked 
him  to  say  something  about  Tristram." 

"About  Tristram?"  says  the  Rector  sharply. 
"What  about  Tristram,  pray?" 

She  could  not  but  remember  former  warnings. 
"I  think  you  will  do  me  the  justice,  James.  You 
have  been  told  that  Tristram  has  chosen  to  amuse 
himself  with  her.  Who  has  not  ?  I  remember  tell- 
ing you  about  it,  when,  as  usual,  you  laughed  at  me. 
I  begged  John  to  influence  the  girl — to  induce  her 
to  respect  herself — and  with  this  result!"  The  Rec- 
tor pushed  his  chair  away. 

"You  speak  more  truly  than  you  know,"  he  said, 
rose  and  took  a  turn  about  the  room.  "Now  I  un- 
derstand the  haste.  He  had  been  hovering,  poor, 
foolish  fellow — singeing  his  grey  wings;  but  it  was 
you,  Constantia,  drove  him  to  plunge.  Take  my 
word  for  it.  Dear,  dear,  dear,  this  is  really  a  great 
bore.  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  upon  my  word  I 
don't." 

"I  shall  speak  to  the  girl,  of  course,"  said  Mrs. 


126  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

James,  gathering  up  letters  and  keys.  It  is  doubtful 
if  her  husband  heard  her.  He  had  stepped  through 
the  window  into  the  garden  before  she  had  risen. 
''The  Rector's  Walk,"  a  pleached  alley  of  nut  trees, 
received  him ;  for  more  than  an  hour  he  might  have 
been  observed  pacing  it,  with  lowered  head  and 
hands  behind  his  back.  But  Mrs.  Germain  went 
about  her  duties  of  the  day  with  tight  lips  and  eyes 
aglitter.  At  intervals  her  anguish  betrayed  itself  in 
cries.    '^ Monstrous!    Monstrous!" 

To  her  it  was  monstrous,  for  she  saw  the  girl  with- 
out glamour,  standing  amid  the  wreckage  of  a  fair 
realm — a  little  governess,  wickedly  demure.  The 
Germain  banner  was  rent,  the  Germain  character 
blotted;  that  carefully  contrived  dual  empire  which 
she  shared  with  the  Cantacutes  was  threatened;  her 
authority  as  a  county  lady,  as  Rector's  wife,  toppling, 
her  throne  wanting  a  leg.  She  saw  herself  pitied, 
her  husband's  family  the  object  of  lifted  brows.  And 
she  had  been  a  loyal  wife,  and  knew  it,  because  she 
had  honestly  admired  the  marks  of  race  in  the  Ger- 
mains.  Herself  a  Telfer,  she  was  of  that  famous 
Norman  house  which  lost  first  blood  at  Hastings; 
and  she  never  forgot  it,  least  of  all  when  she  had 
married  into  the  Germains,  who  were  county  and 
good  blood,  but  not  noble.  She  remembered,  she 
always  remembered  that — but  she  was  a  loyal  wife. 
Without  and  within,  he  and  she  were  a  strong  con- 
trast— he  frosty,  dry,  and  deliberate,  she  fiery,  im- 
pulsive, storm-driven,  not  above  the  aid  of  tears;  he 
lean  and  pale,  she  a  plump  woman  and  a  pink.    His 


ALARUMS  127 

instinct  was  to  approve  at  first  blush,  hers  to  disap- 
prove. They  were  good  friends,  and  had  never  been 
more;  there  were  no  children.  That  had  been  a 
grievance  of  hers  until  she  got  into  the  way  of  saying 
that  the  Germains  were  a  dwindling  race,  and — 
*^look  at  poor  John  Germain!"  I  wish  the  reader  to 
note  the  subtle  change  from  complaint  to  compla- 
cency in  Mrs.  James's  outlook.  It  marks  her  char- 
acter. To  be  a  barren  wife  through  no  fault  of  your 
own  and  to  take  comfort  in  saying  that  your  husband 
comes  of  a  dwindling  stock  shows  that  you  have  an 
eye  for  outline  in  a  family.  It  is  rather  like  excusing 
your  Black  Wyandottes,  which  give  you  no  breakfast 
eggs — "Yes,  but  that's  the  mark  of  the  breed."  So 
here — "either  I  have  children,  or  my  husband  is  no 
Germain."  Here  was  strong  character  exhibited; 
and  all  may  be  forgiven  to  strength.  But  weakness 
— mere  dotage — mere  desire;  a  landed  gentleman  of 
fifty  and  a  girl  in  muslin — "Monstrous!  Mon- 
strous!" cried  Mrs.  James  in  her  bitterness. 

When  Mar}^,  home  from  The  Sanctuary,  heard  the 
click  of  the  wicket,  and  the  swish  of  a  silk  petticoat 
over  the  flagstones,  she  knew  what  was  coming  upon 
her.  Her  colour  fled,  and  returned  redoubled,  and 
a  scare  showed  in  her  quick  eyes.  In  a  moment  she 
called  up  her  defences — her  more  than  one  letter — 
she  had  received  a  third  that  morning.  "I  shall  see 
your  father,"  that  said,  "an  hour  after  you  receive 
this,  my  Mary.  If  I  know  anything  of  his  daughter 
he  will  not  fail  to  confirm  the  signal  trust  which  she 
has  shown  me."    She  had  not  been  very  sure  what 


128  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

he  meant  by  "signal  trust";  it  must  certainly  be 
something  which  any  girl  might  be  proud  to  have. 
And  she  had  something  more  wonderful  than  a  letter 
— a  ring,  the  most  splendid  she  had  ever  seen — a 
great  sapphire  set  in  a  lake  of  brilliants.  She  glanced 
at  it  now  as,  hearing  the  lady  at  the  door,  she  slipped 
it  off  and  put  it  in  her  pocket.  Mrs.  James  knocked, 
like  a  postman ;  and  with  a  wild  heart  Mary  went  to 
meet  her  enemy  in  the  gate. 

"Ah,  good-evening,  Mary.  May  I  come  in? 
Thank  you."  She  preceded  her  dependant  into  the 
little  parlour,  sat  in  the  chair  which  had  most  the  simil- 
itude of  a  throne,  and  began  at  once  upon  her  subject. 

"I  have  called  to  see  you  in  consequence  of  a  letter 
which  the  Rector  received  this  morning  from  Mr. 
Germain.  May  I  inquire  if  you  guess — ?  No,  in- 
deed, I  see  that  I  need  not."  The  girPs  face  told  the 
tale;  her  eyes  were  cast  down;  inquiry  of  the  sort 
was  absurd.  "I  think,  Mary,  that  you  have  strange 
ideas;  I  do,  indeed;  and  am  sorry  to  have  to  add 
that  I  know  where  you  have  obtained  them."  But 
Mary  had  spirit,  it  seemed. 

"I  obtained  them  from  Mr.  Germain,"  she  said, 
with  a  certain  defiance  which  may  have  been  very 
natural,  but  had  been  better  away.  "I  obtained 
them  from  him.    They  were  not  mine,  I  assure  you." 

Mrs.  Germain  opened  her  mouth  and  shut  it  with 
a  snap.  She  opened  it  again  a  little  way  to  say, 
"The  thing  is  impossible,"  and  another  snap  fol- 
lowed. 

"So  I  told  Mr.  Germain,"  said  Mary. 


ALARUMS  1 29 

"My  impression  is  very  strong,"  continued  Mrs. 
James,  ignoring  interruption,  "that  you  have  mis- 
understood Mr.  Germain's  kindness,  and  strangely 
so.    That  being  the  case — "  Mary's  eyes  flashed. 

"I  beg  pardon,  Mrs.  Germain,  but  that  is  not  the 
case.  Mr.  Germain  has  gone  to  see  my  parents  to- 
day.   He  writes  me  word " 

"You  will  kindly  allow  me  to  finish.  I  believe 
that  you  misunderstood  something  Mr.  Germain 
may  have  said  to  you — some  advice,  or  inquiry,  or 
offer  of  help ;  that  he  may  have  seen  your  error  and 
regretted  it  while  he  was  too  chivalrous  to  undeceive 
you.  I  consider  that  you  may  be  preparing  a  great 
unhappiness  for  yourself  and  for  him,  and  I  am 'in 
a  position  to  say " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Germain,"  said  Mary, 
"but  nobody  is  in  a  position  to  say  anything  to  me 
of  this  but  Mr.  Germain  himself." 

Now  this  was  so  obviously  true  that  even  Mrs. 
James  accepted  it.  She  had  been  too  hasty,  and  while 
she  was  swallowing  her  chagrin  Mary  took  her 
opportunity. 

"I  must  tell  you,  please,  that  you  cannot  be  more 
surprised  than  I  was  when  Mr.  Germain  spoke  to 
me  as  he  did.  I  had  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing; 
it  is  not  likely  that  I  should.  He  had  been  all  that's 
kind  to  me  ever  since  the  school-treat — even  now  I 
can  hardly  believe  that  any  one  could  be  so  kind; 
but  when  he — when  he  spoke  to  me — asked  me  if  I 
could  care  for  him — in  that  way — I  vow  to  you  I 
could  not  answer  him.    I  was  most  stupid — I  was 


I30  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

confused  and  could  not  collect  my  thoughts.  And 
I  never  did  collect  them/'  she  cried  with  a  sudden 
burst  of  confession,  "and  never  answered  him  at  all 
— except  by  crying,  which  any  girl  would  have  done, 
I  think;  and  then  he — well,  then  he  k " 

Mrs.  James  shut  her  eyes  tight.  '^I  know  what 
you  are  going  to  say.    No!    no!    Be  silent,  I  beg." 

Mary  put  her  hand  to  her  throat,  as  if  she  was 
being  choked.  Her  eyes  shone  like  jet.  "I  hope 
that  you  will  be  just  to  me,  Mrs.  Germain,  I  do  hope 
so.  I  know  that  you  put  all  the  blame  on  me,  but  it 
is  unfair  to  do  that.  What  could  I  do  ?  If  he  spoke 
to  me  kindly,  must  I  not  answer  kindly  ?  If  he  came 
to  see  me,  how  could  I  refuse  to  see  him  ?  If  he  in- 
vited me  to  walk  with  him,  what  could  I  say,  or  do  ? 
And  then — when  he  asked  me,  Did  I  care  for  him — 
and — and — oh,  I  must  say  it! — kissed " 

**Ah!"  said  Mrs.  Germain,  with  a  spasm.  "Oh, 
wicked,  wicked!" 

Mary  flamed.  "I  am  not  wicked,  Mrs.  Germain, 
and  I  must  ask  you  not  to  call  me  so.  Mr.  Germain 
would  not  like  it  at  all.  You  cannot  believe  him  to 
be  wicked;  and  if  he  did  what  he  did  he  had  good 
reason.  And  now  I  will  tell  you  that  I  never  an- 
swered his  question,  and  have  not  known  how  to 
answer  it." 

"Answer  it,  girl!  You  prevaricate.  Answer  it — 
in  the  face  of  his  letter  to  my  husband!" 

"Mr.  Germain  has  been  more  than  kind,"  said 
Mary,  losing  ground,  "and — and " 

"And  Mr.  Duplessis  has  been  more  than  kind,  I 


ALARUMS  131 

believe,"  said  Mrs.  James — and  her  words  were 
knives.  The  girl  quailed.  "Pray,  how  much  more 
kindness  is  my  family  to  show  you  ?" 

Mary  was  now  very  cold.  "One  member  of  it," 
she  said,  "will  show  me  none — will  not  show  me  even 
justice.    Mr.  Duplessis  has  no  claim " 

"Claim!"  cried  the  great  lady,  red  as  fire,  "what 
claim  should  he  wish  to  make?  I  think  you  have 
lost  your  senses."  She  may  well  have  lost  patience, 
courage,  and  a  good  sense.    She  stamped  her  foot. 

"I  wish  you  would  leave  me  alone,  Mrs.  Germain. 
You  are  cruel  to  me,  and  unjust.  I  have  done  you 
no  harm — no,  but  always  my  duty,  and  you  loiow 
that  very  well.  You  drive  me  into  corners — you 
make  me  say  things — I  am  very  unhapp}^ — please 
leave  me."  She  covered  her  eyes  to  hide  the  tears 
which  pricked  her. 

Mrs.  James  was  not  to  be  melted  by  such  a  device. 
"If  you  are  to  be  impertinent,  I  shall  certainly  leave 
you,"  she  said.  "This  matter,  however,  cannot  be 
left  as  it  is.  The  Rector  must  see  you  about  it. 
Good-evening." 

But  when  the  unaccountable  Rector  received  the 
report  from  his  wife  he  was  pleased  to  show  temper. 
"I  think  you  have  acted  foolishly,  Constantia,  and 
more — I  think  you  have  acted  with  great  want  of  con- 
sideration, I  had  almost  said  with  want  of  respect  for 
my  brother.  You  have  read  his  letter;  you  know 
how  he  stands  towards  Mary ;  and  you  rate  her  as  if 
she  were  a  servant  caught  in  a  fault.  Really,  that 
won't  do.     I  must  make  amends.     Preposterous! 


132  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

That  my  brother's  affianced  wife  should  be  treated 
h'ke  a  kitchenmaid!  You  have  no  right — no  earthly 
right — to  say  to  her  what  you  would  not  dream  of 
saying  to  my  brother.  Heavens!  to  John  Germain! 
head  of  one  of  the  best  families  in  England!  Tst, 
tst!    I  am  very  vexed.'' 

He  must  have  been,  for  he  went  early  to  the  cottage 
and  asked  for  Mary.  When  she  appeared  before 
him,  flushed  and  with  all  her  defences  out,  he  held 
out  his  hand  to  her,  drew  her  towards  him  and  kissed 
her.  ^^So  we  are  to  know  you  in  a  new  capacity,  my 
dear,"  he  said.  *^I  shall  be  very  ready  for  that." 
Her  tears  gathered ;  one  brimmed  over  and  fell,  but 
did  not  scald. 

^^Oh,  Mr.  Germain — "  she  began — and  ended 
there  with  a  choke. 

^^My  dear,  I'll  tell  you  this — you  have  won  a  true 
man.  I  know  my  brother  better  than  you  do,  at 
present,  and  you  may  take  my  word  for  that." 

^' Thank  you,  thank  you,"  was  all  that  she  could 
say. 

*^One  thing  more:  you  will  be  welcome  at  the 
Rectory.  You  mustn't  take  anything  that  has  been 
said  to  you  amiss.  You  know  that  when  we  are 
taken  aback  sometimes  we  don't  always — well,  I'll 
ask  you.  Has  anybody  ever  made  you  jump  ?  Eh  ? 
Somebody  has  ?  Very  well,  weren't  you  rather  cross 
for  a  minute  ?  Confess  that  you  were.  My  dear,  we 
all  are;  but  it  don't  mean  anything." 

"No,  no,  indeed.  Oh,  Mr.  Germain,  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  about  all  this!" 


ALARUMS  133 

*^Your  duty,  my  dear,  to  God  and  man.  It'll  be 
before  you  every  day:  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  take 
it  up." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.  But — Mr.  Germain,  I'm 
frightened — really.  I'm  ignorant  and  stupid — and  of 
course  I'm  different  from " 

'^You've  a  pretty  way  of  confessing  it,  at  any 
rate,"  said  the  Rector.  "It  will  all  come  right,  I 
hope.  You  are  very  quick,  I  can  tell — you'll  learn 
your  lesson  in  no  time.  I  know  you  are  a  charming 
young  lady,  and  believe  a  good  one.  There's  not 
much  more  than  that  in  any  one  that  I've  ever  seen 
in  these  parts.  Now  don't  be  offended  with  me  if  I 
say  that  you  are  going  to  have  a  good  husband,  and 
ask  you  to  deserve  him." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Germain ! "—her  tears  fell  freely— "I 
do  want  to  be  good — I  do  mean  to  try!" 

"Bless  you,  my  dear,  I'm  quite  sure  of  that,"  said 
he,  and  gave  her  another  kiss. 

He  told  his  wife  that  evening  definitely  that  they 
must  make  the  best  of  it,  and  gave  her  to  understand 
that  John's  wife  must  be  taken  at  John's  valuation. 
If  John  chose  to  marry  a  kitchenmaid,  that  kitchen- 
maid  was  ipso  facto  on  the  Germain  level ;  so  also  if 
John  had  selected  an  archduchess.  A  Germain 
could  pick  up  or  pull  down,  said  the  Rector  in  effect. 
But  he  also  announced  that  he  should  go  to  town  on 
the  morrow — which  weakened  his  decree. 

So  he  did,  and  was  away  two  days — an  interval  of 
time  during  which  Mary  went  grimly  about  her  du- 
ties and  Mrs.  Germain  faced  the  problem  of  the 


134  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

Cantacutes.  This  lady  may  be  pitied,  who  felt  her 
crown  slipping  and  throne  rocking  on  its  degrees. 
Her  loyalty  to  the  family  into  which  she  had  been 
married  was  sapped;  she  did  not  see  how  Germain 
character  was  to  be  admired  if  it  betrayed  a  Germain 
into  such  a  vagary.  Her  husband,  her  temperate, 
frosty  James,  was  involved;  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  was  tempted  to  work  against  him.  She  could 
do  that,  mind  you;  she  had  the  weapon  to  her  hand, 
a  double-edged  tool — Tristram.  A  hint  to  Tristram 
at  Pau  and  he  would  be  here — and  once  here,  should 
he  look  upon  Mary  as  she  believed  he  would,  as  the 
lion  on  a  lamb  printed  by  his  paw,  why,  what  chance 
had  John  Germain  against  him?  That  villainy  she 
could  practise  if  she  chose;  but  she  knew  it  was  a 
villainy,  and  that  she  was  no  villain.  Then  there 
was  another  way,  not  villainous — nay,  was  it  not  a 
duty?  She  could  tell  John  Germain  what  she  knew 
of  Tristram  and  hint  at  more  than  she  knew.  A 
Germain  would  shiver  at  such  a  tarnish  on  his  ideal 
— she  could  see  John  shut  his  eyes  as  the  spasm 
passed  over  him;  but  there  was  this  difficulty  about 
it,  that  she  could  not  write  to  him  without  her  hus- 
band's knowledge — nay,  without  his  approbation — 
whereas,  what  more  natural  than  that  she  should 
deplore  with  her  cousin  Laura  Duplessis  this  miser- 
able state  of  affairs?  Mrs.  James  was  no  villain; 
she  was  merely  a  proud  woman  touched  on  a  raw. 
Her  security,  her  comfort,  her  authority,  her  self- 
esteem  were  all  threatened  by  an  act  of  dotage ;  what 
else  was  this  infatuation  of  John  Germain's,  pray? 


ALARUMS  135 

And  there  are  sophistries  to  help  the  very  best  of  us. 
Had  there  been  nothing  between  Tristram  and 
Mary,  Mrs.  Duplessis  would  have  been  invited  to 
sympathize;  and  there  was  nothing,  after  all.  Tris- 
tram, with  his  high  connexions,  his  talents,  and  his 
superb  air — and  a  little  sly  teacher!  The  thing  was 
absurd!  Fully  convinced  of  its  absurdity,  Mrs. 
James  marched  down  to  the  Cottage,  and  found  her 
cousin  Duplessis  arranged  on  a  sofa  with  a  white 
lace  mantilla  over  her  head;  her  hand-bell  in  easy 
call,  and  a  smelling-bottle  attached  to  her  wrist  by 
a  little  chain. 

Mrs.  Duplessis  had  been  handsome,  and  remem- 
bered it.  Everything  about  her  person  reminded  her 
of  that — her  languor,  her  elegance,  her  thin  hands, 
her  fine  complexion,  her  tall  son.  ^^How  I  survived 
the  birth  of  that  great  boy  passes  my  comprehension. 
My  nerves,  you  know!  My  dear  Hector,  all  fire  as 
he  was,  had  the  tact  of  a  woman.  ^M'amie,'  he  said, 
^ never  again;  or  I  accuse  myself  of  murder.  Hence- 
forward I  am  a  monk.'  He  kept  his  word,  but  it 
killed  him.  Do  not  men  die  for  women  ?  My  poor, 
brave  Hector!"  Apart  from  these  tender  reminis- 
cences, she  had  her  poverty  to  cherish,  to  tinge  with 
dignity,  to  show  burnished — with  a  lovely  patina  like 
old  lacquer.  *^We  live  wretchedly,  as  you  can  see, 
my  dear  soul;  but  we  pay  our  way  and  hold  our 
heads  up.  We  only  owe  to  ourselves,  and  are  indul- 
gent creditors.  Tristram,  I  suppose  will  marry: 
il  doit  se  ranger ,  vraiment.  But  he  says  that  we  can 
afford  leisure — our  only  luxury!    The  good  Canta- 


136  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

cutes  are  most  kind,  and  Hertha  a  really  charming 
girl.  .  .  .  Why  is  it  that  young  men  cannot  see 
where  their  fortune  lies?  Cynicism?  Arrogance? 
Ingratitude?     I  ask  myself  these  questions." 

She  was  enormously  interested  in  the  news,  and 
gratified.  ''My  poor  soul,  what  a  blow!  John  Ger- 
main, of  all  humdrum  persons  in  the  world — and  the 
girl  not  even  pretty,  you  say.  Clever,  though.  Have 
you  broken  it  to  Emily  Cantacute?  I  don't  envy 
you  that  task." 

''It's  not  done  yet,"  said  Mrs.  James  grimly. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  but  it  is,"  her  cousin  replied  acutely. 
"  John  Germain  is  just  the  man  to  be  in  opposition. 
Pride,  you  know.  We  all  have  that.  He  would  call 
it  chivalry." 

"Do  you  know  how  far  Tristram  might  be  con- 
cerned in  this?"  Mrs.  James  inquired  shortly;  Mrs. 
Duplessis  narrowed  her  eyes  and  slowly  shut  them. 

"Tristram  never  gives  confidences,"  she  said,  in 
a  carefully  fatigued  voice.  "On  such  a  matter  I  had 
rather  he  did  not." 

Mrs.  James  would  have  none  of  this. 

"My  dear  Laura,  we  are  alone.  I  think  I  know 
Tristram  well  enough  to  say  that  he  has  interested 
himself  in  the  girl.  No  doubt  he  has  flattered  her;  I 
think  she  has  been  grateful.  It  would  not  be  surprising 
if  he  were  unprepared  for  such  a  change  of  affairs." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Mrs.  Duplessis,  "judging 
by  what  you  seem  to  think  of  her,  I  should  imagine 
that  he  might  be  prepared  for  anything.  To  be  sure, 
there  is  John  Germain " 


ALARUMS  137 

*'  John  Germain  and  Tristram  are  not  good  friends; 
I  happen  to  know." 

*^Ah/'  said  Mrs.  Duplessis,  ^^that  throws  some 
hght." 

^'Perhaps  it  does,'*  Mrs.  James  returned;  ''but 
I  should  not  hke  to  say  where  it  throws  it."  She  had 
a  shrewd  suspicion  that  she  and  her  cousin  might  be 
in  the  beam.    There  was  a  taint  in  all  this. 

The  Rector  came  back  that  night  greatly  both- 
ered. More  than  once  in  the  course  of  the  evening 
he  threw  up  his  hands.  "My  poor,  good  brother! 
Heaven  help  us  all ! " 

"I  found  him  inalterably  fixed,"  he  told  his  wife, 
*'aMd  perfectly  complacent.  His  serenity  confounded 
me,  put  me  to  shame.  He  sees  his  happiness  as 
clearly  before  him  as  you  see  his  misery.  He  loves  the 
child  for  the  very  things  which  you  dislike  in  her. 
You  say  that  she  is  common,  and  I  cannot  contradict 
you.  He  says  that  simplicity  can  grace  any  station. 
Ignorant  we  call  her — he  says.  It  shall  be  my  privilege 
to  teach.  You  call  her  sly;  he  protests.  But  so  is 
the  hunted  hare.  He  says  that  the  thought  of  a 
young  girl  struggling  single-handed  with  a  world  of 
satyrs  from  her  sixteenth  year  freezes  his  blood. 
You  class  her  with  them :  all  satyrs  together,  you  say. 
Constantia,  I  tell  you  that  his  folly  is  more  noble 
than  our  wisdom.  I  boast  myself  a  Christian,  but 
what  am  I  in  truth  if  not  a  very  Pharisee?  'Lord, 
I  thank  Thee  that  I  am  not  as  one  of  these'!  Is 
this  Christian?" 

''It  seems  to  me  common  gratitude,"  said  his  wife. 


138  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

''Pray,  did  you  tell  him  that  the  girl  was  compro- 
mised?"   The  Rector  frowned. 

''Naturally,  I  did  not,  since  I  neither  knew  it,  nor 
believed  it.  Compromised,  Constantia!  That  is  a 
dangerous  word  to  use.    That  involves  a  good  name." 

"It  does  indeed,  James.  It  involves  ours.  I  tell 
you  that  the  girl  is  stale."  She  might  as  well  have  shot 
him — she  had  never  done  herself  more  fatal  mischief. 

He  seemed  hardly  able  to  look  at  her,  nor  did  she 
know  him  when  he  did.  "Do  you  dare  speak  so  of 
any  woman  born  ?  To  the  brother  of  this  girl's — do 
you  dare  ?  You  have  shocked  me  beyond  expression." 

She  was  certainly  frightened — but  she  had  her 
duty  to  do.  "I  am  sorry  to  have  displeased  you. 
I  spoke  advisedly.    I  hope  that  I  always  do  that." 

His  pride  was  stinging  him.  He  spoke  now  as  if 
he  were  her  enemy — coldly,  as  if  he  hardly  knew  the 
woman. 

"If,  as  I  am  bound  to  believe,  you  are  speaking 
with  knowledge  which  I  do  not  possess,  I  must  ask 
you  to  let  me  share  it.  This  is  a  very  serious  matter 
both  to  John  and  to  Mary.  With  whom  do  you  say 
she  is  compromised?" 

Two  and  two  make  four,  of  course — but  two 
shadows  and  two  cannot  make  four  plump  facts. 
Mrs.  James  knew  that  she  had  gone  too  far.  She 
had  little  but  suspicion  behind  her.  "I  think  that 
Tristram  has  made  love  to  her,"  she  said,  and  re- 
hearsed the  scene  of  the  garden.  As  she  put  it  now, 
the  Rector  made  a  wry  face. 

"This,  at  its  worst,  is  discreditable  to  Tristram. 


ALARUMS 


139 


I  see  your  point  now.  Mary,  you  suggest,  has  had 
experiences.  All  girls  have  them,  I  suppose,  and 
certainly  are  not  always  the  worse  for  them.  You 
must  have  something  worse  than  this  to  excuse  your 
strong  words." 

Mrs.  James  had.  She  poured  out  all  the  garner 
of  a  year's  eye-harvest,  this  young  man  and  that 
young  man — a  moonlight  encounter — God  knows 
what  not.  And — ''Mrs.  Seacox  told  me,"  she  said, 
''that  Mary  used  to  be  a  great  deal  in  the  company 
of  young  Rudd.  She  had  seen  them  kissing."  A  sud- 
den flood  of  disgust  engulfed  the  Rector  of  Misperton 
Brand.  He  turned  shortly  on  his  heel  and  paced  the 
carpet.    Midway  back  he  stopped. 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  I  sicken  at  all  this  gossip — 
this  traffic  of  nods  and  winks.  It  amounts  to  little  at 
its  worst.  I  will  have  no  more  of  it.  It  is  my  duty  to 
believe  the  best  of  my  neighbours;  I  have  not  the 
eyes  of  Mrs.  Seacox,  nor,  I  hope,  her  understanding. 
I  believe  Mary  to  be  a  modest  and  virtuous  young 
woman,  and  you  have  told  me  nothing  to  vary  that 
opinion.  Such  matters — Matters!  they  are  nothing 
but  nasty  surmises — are  intensely  distasteful  to  me; 
I  will  hear  no  more."  He  went  into  his  study  and 
shut  the  door.    All  the  Germains  were  squeamish. 

Rather  hard  on  Mrs.  James.  And  so  was  felt  to 
be  the  result  of  her  elaborate  disclosure  to  the  Canta- 
cutes.  This  was  that  Hertha  de  Speyne  went  down 
in  person  and  invited  the  girl  to  tea — and  that  Lady 
Cantacute  called  her  "a  nice  little  thing." 


XIII 

WHAT   THEY   SAID  AT  HOME 

In  obedience  to  one  of  those  traditions  before 
which  the  British  parent  hes  prone,  the  moment  that 
Mary  Middleham  was  asked  for  and  granted,  the 
utmost  care  was  taken  that  she  should  see  as  h'ttle  as 
possible  of  the  man  with  whom  she  was  to  spend  her 
life.  Spotless  must  she  be  brought  out  by  the  con- 
tractors, spotless  be  transferred  to  the  purchaser. 
She  was  sent  for  from  home,  and  home  she  went 
after  a  month  of  clearing  up.  There  had  been  much 
to  do;  good-byes  to  say,  some  to  avoid  saying,  if  so 
it  might  be.  Mr.  Nunn,  making  her  a  presentation 
and  a  speech  before  his  assembled  seed-plots,  also 
made  her  cry;  but  Mrs.  James  Germain,  in  the 
course  of  an  icy  tea-party,  whereat  the  girl  was  pres- 
ent, unexplained,  unaccounted  for,  and  ignored, 
until  the  late  entry  of  the  Rector  on  the  scene  very 
nearly  made  her  defiant.  She  had  a  spirit  of  her  own 
—and  there  are  ways  of  showing  ''persons  their 
place''  which  spirited  persons  may  not  endure.  At 
that  tea-party — under  Mrs.  James's  politeness  and 
the  chill  insolence  of  Mrs.  Duplessis — the  prosperity 

of  Mr.  John  Germain's  love  was  like  that  of  a  bubble 

140 


WHAT  THEY  SAID   AT  HOME  141 

on  a  tobacco  pipe — its  iris  globe  throbbed  towards 
inward  collapse.  His  brother  saved  it  to  soar;  he 
was  charming — easy,  homely,  cool,  and  obviously 
glad  to  have  her  there.  Touched  profoundly,  she 
became  at  once  buoyant — as  all  young  people  must 
be  if  they  are  to  live — and  meek.  When  the  com- 
pany was  gone  he  had  her  into  his  library,  and  dis- 
cussed her  affair  as  a  settled,  happily  settled,  thing — 
ending,  rectorwise,  with  a  little  homily,  in  which  he 
delicately  but  unmistakably  showed  her  that  she  was 
going  into  a  very  new  world  and  had  better  go  in 
clean  raiment.  *'Let  there  be  no  drawbacks  to  your 
future  happiness,  my  dear,  of  your  own  providing. 
Marriage  is  the  happiest  of  all  states  so  long  as  it  is 
a  clear  bargain.  That  is  not  always  possible;  with 
two  people  of  an  age  much  may  be  taken  for  granted. 
You  are  young,  and  your  husband  is  not.  He  is  wiser 
than  you  are  and  asks  nothing  better  than  to  help 
you.  Make  him  your  friend  before  he  makes  you 
his  wife;  you  will  never  regret  it.  And  you  may  be- 
gin, I  believe,  by  making  a  friend  of  his  brother.^' 

She  replied  brokenly,  lamely,  but  she  was  deeply 
grateful — and  he  knew  it.  Atop  of  that  came  Miss 
de  Speyne — the  Honourable  Hertha  de  Speyne — in 
a  fast  dog-cart  to  her  cottage  door,  with  an  invitation 
to  tea  at  the  Park.  She  went — and  had  the  sense  to 
go  in  her  simplest.  Dress,  manner,  and  looks  ap- 
pealed— Here  am  I,  the  girl  as  he  found  me,  as  I 
pleased  him.  Make  what  you  please  of  me — if  you 
please.  Lady  Cantacute  could  make  no  mistake  in 
a  matter  of  the  sort — her  manners  were  as  fine  as  her 


142  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

instincts.  His  lordship,  even  more  finely,  varied 
nothing  from  his  habits;  and  his  daughter  could  not. 
There  was  no  company,  and  all  went  well;  after  tea, 
better.  Miss  de  Speyne  invited  her  to  walk ;  they  sat 
in  the  rose-garden.  By-and-by  came  a  question.  ^^I 
think  you  know  a  friend  of  mine — Mr.  Senhouse?" 
This  had  to  be  explained.  Mr.  Senhouse,  it  ap- 
peared, was  the  gentleman-tinker  of  Mere  Common. 
Mary  sparkled  as  she  admitted  her  acquaintance, 
and  after  that  all  was  well  indeed.  His  acts  and 
opinions  were  debated.  Miss  de  Speyne  thought  him 
cynical,  and  hinted  at  some  unhealed  wound;  Miss 
Middleham  could  not  admit  that.  She  believed  him 
sound,  if  not  spear-proof. 

^^He  spoke  to  me  of  my  engagement,  but  not  as 
anybody  else  would  have  done." 

'^Didhelikeit?" 

Mary  blushed.  ^^I  could  hardly  say.  He  spoke 
very  highly  of  Mr.  Germain.  He  had  met  him  here, 
he  told  me.'' 

"Yes.  I  wanted  them  to  meet,"  Miss  de  Speyne 
said — and  Mary  wondered. 

"He  told  me,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  that 
he  should  never  marry" — she  said,  presently;  but 
Miss  de  Spe3me,  older  than  her  new  friend,  held  her 
peace. 

At  parting,  the  tall,  splendid  young  woman  clasped 
hands  with  her  warmly.  "  Good-bye.  It  was  nice  of 
you  to  come.  I  wish  I  had  known  you  before — but 
we're  such  fools  in  the  country." 

Mary  said,  "I  hope  you  won't  forget  me  after 


WHAT  THEY   SAID   AT  HOME  143 

.I'm — "  She  felt  delicate  about  this  astounding 
marriage.  But  Miss  Hertha  reassured  her.  ^'When 
you've  settled  down,  ask  me  and  I  shall  come  and 
see  you.  Of  course,  you'll  be  asked  here — but  you 
needn't  come  unless  you  like.  This  was  bracing; 
she  began  to  believe  in  herself,  to  say  that  she  had 
nothing  to  fear,  and  to  believe  it.  But  she  found  out 
her  mistake  within  a  little,  when,  in  mid-August,  she 
left  Misperton  Brand,  crossed  London,  and  found 
her  sister  Jinny  awaiting  her  on  the  Blackheath 
platform. 

Jinny,  the  tall,  the  pert,  the  very  fair,  strikingly 
attired,  despising  all  mankind  and  ignoring  all 
womankind,  sailed  to  meet  her,  intending  to  be  pat- 
roness still.  It  was  soon  to  be  seen  that  her  claim 
was  not  disputed.  ^'Well,  Molly,  so  here  you  are. 
Hand  out  your  traps.  And,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
child,  put  your  hat  straight.  Do  you  w^ant  all  the 
world  to  know  that  you're  engaged?" 

Mary  laughed,  her  hands  to  her  hat.  ''It's  all 
right,  my  dear,"  she  said.    ''I've  come  down  alone." 

"If  you'd  come  down  with  your  Mr.  Germain  I 
should  never  have  accused  him  of  it,  I  assure  you." 
Miss  Jinny  tossed  her  head.  "Too  much  the  gen- 
tleman by  half.  Is  that  all  you  have  ?  The  rest  in 
the  van,  I  suppose.  Well,  child,  you  look  well 
enough,  I  must  say.  So  he  agrees  with  you?" 
They  kissed  each  other  on  both  cheeks. 

In  the  fly.  Jinny  enlarged  upon  the  recent  visit  of 
Mr.  Germain.  "My  dear!  he  fairly  scared  poor 
father.    It  was,  'Yes,  sir,'  'no,  sir,'  from  him  all  the 


144  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

time — and  'any  arrangements  you  wish,  sir.'  I  don't 
see  that  sort  of  talk  myself — but  father  was  always 
a  worm.  What  he  made  of  me  I  really  can't  say — 
you  know  my  way  with  gentlemen — take  me  or  leave 
me  alone,  is  my  rule.  Well,  he  left  me  alone,  and  I 
managed  to  get  over  that,  as  you  see.  I'm  still  the 
same  height  in  my  stockings.  So  you  mean  to  be 
'an  old  man's  darling,'  Molly?  Every  one  to  her 
taste,  I  suppose." 

^'Oh,  Jinny,  he's  not  old." 

^'He  could  be  your  father,  my  dear — easily." 
He's  not  going  to  be,  I  assure  you." 
Well,  we'll  see.     I  should  hope  not,  of  course. 
One  thing's  as  plain  as  my  nose;  your  people  won't 
see  much  of  you  when  you're  boxed  up  with  that 
old " 

"Jinny,  please!" 

"Oh,  if  you  want  me  to  tell  falsehoods,  my  dear, 
I'll  do  my  best  to  oblige  you.  I'll  call  him  young  to 
myself  until  it  comes  easy.  Practice  makes  perfect, 
they  say.  Why,  here  we  are!  This  horse  must  have 
the  glanders  or  something.  Perhaps  he  thought  Mr. 
Germain  was  after  you.  There's  a  lot  of  sense  in 
brute  beasts."  All  this,  which  shows  the  rights  of 
elder,  was  meekly  received. 

Home-coming  was  nevertheless  a  sort  of  triumph. 
The  younger  girls — all  tidied  up — allowed  her  to  kiss 
them  as  if  she  had  become  an  aunt;  father  and 
mother  made  much  of  her;  she  must  see  in  their 
faces  a  sort  of  anxious  wonder — Can  this  be  our 
Mary  then  ?    Can  I  have  begotten  this  young  lady  ? 


WHAT  THEY  SAID   AT  HOME  145 

Can  these  breasts  have  nourished  a  Mrs.  Germain  ? 
She  was  to  have  tea  in  her  hat,  which  Jinny  refused 
to  do;  but  elaborately  removed  it  and  administered 
the  kettle,  the  muffins,  the  slices  of  bread,  the  jam- 
pot. Blushing  and  successful  as  she  showed,  Mary 
would  have  put  an  end  to  this  splendid  isolation  if 
she  could.  It  was  not  possible  until  tea  was  over; 
but  then,  when  her  father  made  her  a  kind  of  speech 
— clearing  his  throat  and  frowning  at  one  of  the 
girls,  who  was  speaking  the  deaf  and  dumb  language 
to  another  under  the  table — then  indeed  Mary  upset 
all  ceremonial,  by  jumping  up,  and  knocking  down 
her  chair,  by  throwing  herself  upon  her  mother^s  lap, 
her  arms  around  her  mother's  neck,  by  hiding  her 
face  upon  her  mother's  breast  and  anointing  that 
dear  cradle  with  tears.  Mr.  Middleham's.  little 
speech  ended  in  a  choking  fit;  the  girls  looked  all 
their  misery;  and  Jinny  sniffed  and  hardened  her 
heart.  Mary  had  unbent,  but  she  was  made  to  see  that 
all  her  people  knew  that  it  was  a  condescension. 

The  sisters  slept  together  as  of  old,  and  Jinny 
must  be  wooed.  For  natural  reasons  Mary  must 
have  Jinny's  approbation,  must  coax  and  kiss  and 
strain  for  it.  Jinny  w^as  not  easily  won,  but  after 
a  passionate  while  allowed  the  back  of  her  mind  to 
be  seen.  She  sat  up  in  bed  and  asked  a  series  of 
questions.  They  were  answered  in  low  murmurs  by 
a  hiding  Molly. 

^' Molly,  how  did  you  get  off  from  Misperton?'' 

"Quite  well." 

"H'm.    Glad  to  hear  it.    No  scenes?'* 


146  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

'*Mrs.  Germain  was  rather  awful.  She  always 
hated  me.  The  Rector  was  sweet  to  me.  And  oh! 
there  was  Miss  de  Speyne — I  can't  tell  you  how  kind 
she  was.  Certainly,  we  had  a  friend  in  common 
.  .  .  but " 

*^  That's  not  what  I  mean.  You  can  manage 
theniy  I  should  hope.  I  know  that  /  could.  The 
Rectory,  indeed — and  you  to  go  out  before  her! 
Molly,  did  you  see  him  before  you  went?" 

"Who  do  you  mean?"  said  a  suddenly  sobered 
Molly. 

"You  know  quite  well  who  I  mean." 

"John  Rudd,  I  suppose.  There's  nothing  be- 
tween us — now." 

"John  Rudd!  John  Germain!  There's  not  only 
Johns  in  the  world.  There's  an  Ambrose — you 
know." 

"Mr.  Perivale!  Oh,  Jinny,  that's  ridiculous. 
Why,  he  only " 

"I  know  what  he  only — as  you  call  it.  I  don't 
mean  that  at  all — or  him  either.  I  asked  you,  Did 
you  see  him  before  you  went  ? ' '  There  was  no  answer 
for  a  minute  or  more — and  then  a  defiant  answer. 

"No,  I  didn't.    He's  away — abroad." 

"Ah.  Well,  you'll  have  to,  you  know.  Have  you 
told  old— Mr.  Germain?" 

"No — at  least — I  was  going  to.  But  that  was 
when  he — kissed  me — and  so  I  couldn't." 

"That  was  when  he  kissed  you?  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me ?" 

"No, of  course  not.  But  he  kisses  my  hand  mostly." 


WHAT  THEY  SAID   AT  HOME  147 

*^Well,  I'm — "  Miss  Jinny  did  not  say  what  she 
considered  herself  to  be. 

^'Gentlemen are hke  that,  Jinny — real  gentlemen." 

"Gentlemen!  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that 
Tr —  that  he  is  not  a  gentleman?" 

"That  was  quite  different.  He  meant  nothing  but 
— it  was  all  nonsense." 

"I  advise  you  to  find  out  whether  Mr.  Germain 
thinks  it  nonsense." 

"Of  course,  I  shall  tell  him  everything.  I  don't 
want  ever  to  see  Mr.  Dup — him  again.  That  was 
all  foolishness."  Mary  sat  up  in  bed  and  clasped  her 
knees.  Her  eyes,  staring  at  the  bright  light,  were 
stored  with  knowledge — as  if  the  soul  within  were 
shining  through  them  at  last.  "I  have  a  friend — 
a  real,  wise  friend — who  has  told  me  this  much — 
that  there  is  a  real  thing.    I  believe  that,  I  do  indeed." 

Jinny  stared,  then  yawned.  "I'm  sleepy.  That's 
real  enough  for  me  just  now.  What  do  you  mean, 
child?" 

"I  mean  that  one  might  give  up  everything — risk 
everything — if  one  were  sure,  quite  sure.  But  if  one 
isn't — if  one  knows  that  one  is  a  trifle,  a  plaything,  to 
a — to  a  person,  and  that,  to  another  person,  one  may 
be  much  more — then — oh.  Jinny,  Jinny,  please!" 
Mary's  arms  wxre  now  about  Jinny's  neck,  and  Jinny 
allowed  herself  to  be  pulled  down.  Mary  snuggled 
and  put  up  her  lips.  After  an  instant  she  whispered, 
"Darling  old  Jinny,  will  you  do  something  for  me?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Promise." 


148  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"What  is  it?" 

"If  Tr — if  he  comes  here — will  you  see  him  for 
me?    Oh,  please,  please " 

"Why  can't  you ?" 

"No,  no,  I  can't,  you  know  I  can't.  Why,  he 
looks  at  me  as  if  I  belonged  to  him — as  if  he  had  a 
right — !  And  when  he  does  that,  when  he  frowns 
and  looks  through  you,  and  waits — and  says  nothing 
— I  know  what  he  means;  and  if  he  said  one  word, 
or  moved  towards  me,  or  beckoned" —  She  shivered 
and  hid  her  face.  "I  simply  mustn't — I  daren't. 
Oh,  Jinny  darhng,  please!" 

After  a  time  Jinny  promised — but  Mary's  peace 
was  broken  up.  A  shadow  haunted  her  outdoors 
and  in. 

Mr.  Germain  drove  down  to  Blackheath  to  greet 
his  bride.  Her  shy  welcome,  with  gladness  behind, 
to  make  it  real,  charmed  him  altogether.  The  fam- 
ily, after  a  respectful  interval,  left  him  the  parlour, 
for  which  he  was  grateful.  It  would  have,  no  doubt, 
to  be  explained  that  in  marrying  Mary  he  had  no 
intention  of  taking  charge  of  her  people.  Admittedly 
they  were  impossible,  but  it  is  very  odd  that  he  loved 
the  girl  of  his  selection  the  more  for  being  simply  and 
unaffectedly  one  of  them.  He  respected  her  for  it, 
but  there  was  more  than  that.  At  the  bottom  of  his 
heart  he  knew  that  if  she  were  to  lose  sight  of  her 
origin,  his  love  would  suffer.  It  was  absolutely  nec- 
essary— he  felt  it — that  she  must  masquerade  for  life, 
be  a  sweet  little  hourgeoise  playing  county  lady;  but 
playing  it  with  sincerity,  and  obediently,  doing  her 


WHAT  THEY  SAID   AT  HOME  149 

best  because  she  was  told.  The  unvoiced  conviction 
lay  behind  what  he  now  had  to  say  to  her.  He  told 
her,  for  instance,  that  he  hoped  she  would  see  as 
much  of  her  family  as  she  pleased,  after  she  was 
married,  though,  of  course,  she  would  have  the 
duties  of  her  new  station  to  consider  and  to  reconcile 
with  others.  He  did  not  suppose,  he  told  her,  that  it 
would  be  reasonable,  or  even  true  kindness,  to  ask 
them  often  to  Southover.  '^I  esteem  your  father 
highly,  my  dearest.  He  is  in  all  respects  what  I 
should  have  expected  your  father  to  be.  Your 
mother,  too,  is,  I  am  sure,  worthy  of  your  love  and 
gratitude;  your  sisters  seem  to  me  happy  and  affec- 
tionate girls.  I  doubt,  however,  if  they  would  be  com- 
fortable among  our  friends  at  Southover — "  Mary 
here  said  at  once  that  she  was  sure  they  would  not. 

^^They  are  different  from  you — quite  different. 
We  are  quite  poor  people — you  would  call  us  middle- 
class  people,  wouldn't  you?" 

*^I  suppose  that  I  should,"  he  admitted;  ''but 
would  that  hurt  you,  my  love?" 

''No,  no,  not  at  all.  There  is  no  harm  in  that; 
and  we  can't  help  it — but " 

He  leaned,  put  his  arm  round  her  waist  and  drew 
her  to  him.  ''Well,  my  darling,  well — ?  Tell  me 
of  what  you  are  thinking." 

"I  was  wondering — if  you  can  see  that  they 
wouldn't  do  at  Southover,  what  made  you  think  that 
I  should  do  there,  either."    He  held  her  closer. 

"I'll  tell  you,  my  love.  It  was  because  I  knew 
what  I  should  feel  if  you  were  ever  to  be  there.    It 


150  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

was  because  my  heart  was  full  of  you,  so  that  I  could 
never  look  on  any  scene  that  I  loved  without  seeing 
you  in  it,  and  loving  it  the  more  for  your  presence 
there.  When  I  thought  of  Southover,  I  saw  you  its 
little  sovereign  lady,  and  myself  waiting  upon  you, 
showing  you  all  the  things  about  it  which  have  been 
so  dear  to  me  in  spite  of — much  unhappiness;  and 
my  heart  beat  high.  I  said  to  myself.  You  must  be 
a  miserable  and  lonely  man,  my  friend,  unless  you 
can  promise  yourself  this  joy  of  service.  Does  my 
Mary  understand  me?"  He  stooped  his  head  to 
hers,  and  asked  her  again.  Did  she  understand? 
Yes,  yes,  she  said,  but  she  sighed,  and  turned  her 
face  away.    Then  he  must  needs  kiss  her. 

Then  she  did  try  to  speak,  meaning,  if  possible,  to 
lead  herself  up  to  a  confession.  She  told  him  that 
she  feared  to  disappoint  him,  that  he  rated  her  too 
highly.  "I  can  tell  you  truthfully  that  your  love  has 
made  me  very  proud  and  very  happy;  I  must 
assure  you  that  I  shall  do  everything  in  my  power  to 
prove  to  you  how  proud  I  am.  I  will  do  my  duty 
faithfully — you  must  tell  me  of  the  least  thing  which 
is  not  just  as  you  like.  I  can't  do  more  than  that, 
can  I?" 

^'Nobody  in  the  world  could  do  more  than  that," 
he  told  her. 

"But  there's  something  else.  Mrs.  Germain  at 
Misperton  doesn't  like  me  at  all " 

He  nodded  sadly.  "I  know,  my  dear,  I  know. 
She  is  a  foolish,  arrogant  woman,  but  there  are 
excuses " 


WHAT  THEY  SAID   AT  HOME  151 

^'Oh,  of  course  there  are!"  She  sat  upon  his 
knee.  "I  expect  that  she  is  right  and  that  you  are 
wrong — in  a  way."  Then  her  eyes  opened  widely 
upon  him:  the  hour  had  come.  ''But  she  thinks — 
she  says  that  I  am — bad."  He  turned  grey.  ''Oh, 
no,  my  love,  you  misjudge  her!  Good  Heavens — 
bad!" 

She  held  her  face  back  from  him  that  she  might 
look  at  him  seriously.  "She  does,  you  know — but 
she  makes  no  allowances.  I  have  always  tried  to 
be  a  good  girl — I  assure  you.  Please  believe  that." 
He  held  her  to  his  heart. 

"My  dearest,  my  dearest,  you  distress  me.  Good! 
Who  is  good  if  you  are  not?  Purest  of  the  pure — 
my  Mary."    But  she  shook  herself  free  in  a  hurry. 

"No,  no,  indeed,  you  mustn't  say  that.  That's 
absurd.  I  am  just  an  ordinary  girl,  who  likes  to  be 
happy,  and  to  be  admired,  and  to  have  fun  when  I 
can " 

"Of  course,  of  course.  Oh,  my  beloved,  do  not 
reproach  yourself."  Then  she  turned  in  his  arms, 
put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  looked  gravely 
and  imploringly  into  his  face. 

"Promise  me  one  thing,"  she  said,  "one  thing 
only.  I  will  ask  you  nothing  more  than  that."  She 
could  not  have  been  resisted  by  the  Assessing  Angel. 

"Speak,  my  adored  one." 

"Whatever  you  hear  of  me — against  me — ask  me 
what  I  have  to  say  before  you  condemn  me.  Prom- 
ise me  that." 

"My  love  and  my  life,"  he  said  fervently;    and 


152  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

she  pouted  her  lips  for  a  kiss.  Thus  she  justified 
herself  in  this  regard,  and  by  a  sophistry  of  her  sex 
came  in  time  to  feel  that  she  had  made  him  a  full 
confession.    She  told  Jinny  as  much. 

We  were  now  in  late  August ;  the  wedding  was  to 
be  quietly  at  Blackheath  at  the  end  of  September, 
and  the  exciting  business  of  the  trousseau  must  be 
undertaken.  Mrs.  James,  it  seems,  had  so  far  recon- 
ciled herself  to  the  inevitable  as  to  have  consented 
to  come  to  town  and  ^^see  to  things"  which  the  child 
must  have.  Her  own  people  being  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, Mary  was  to  stay  with  her  in  Hill-street,  which 
was  one  day  to  be  her  own  house,  and  do  her  shop- 
ping. A  liberal  sum  was  in  Mrs.  James's  hands  for 
the  purpose.  There  vv^as  to  be  no  white  satin;  but 
Jinny  was  to  be  allowed  to  walk  as  bridesmaid. 
There  was  no  way  out  of  this.  Her  dress  was  to  be 
chosen  for  her,  and  then  she  must  come  to  London 
to  be  fitted;  but  she  was  not  to  be  asked  to  Hill- 
street. 


XIV 

THE  NEWS  REACHES  THE  PYRENEES 

Pau,  in  August,  being  what  no  man  could  be  ex- 
pected to  stand,  Duplessis  and  his  friend  Lord 
Bramleigh  went  into  Spain,  and  lounged  at  San 
Sebastian.  Here  on  a  blazing  noon  of  mid-Septem- 
ber, as  they  were  breakfasting  at  leisure,  a  budget  of 
letters  was  delivered. 

Lord  Bramleigh,  cheerful,  wholesome,  and  round- 
faced,  chirped  over  his,  according  to  his  wont.  He 
read  most  of  them  aloud,  with  comments.  "Old 
Gosperton's  shoot — will  I  go?  I'll  see  him  damned. 
Why  should  I  go  and  see  old  Gosperton  shoot  beat- 
ers ?  Not  if  I  know  it.  Who's  this  ?  Mary  St.  Chad, 
by  the  Lord!  Now  what  does  she  want?  .  .  .  *I. 
suppose  you  know  that  Bob  Longford  is  .  .  .'  I'll 
be  shot  if  I  know  anything  of  the  sort.  I  know  he 
wants  to  all  right ;  but  you  can't  marry  a  chap's  wife 
— at  least  I  don't  think  you  can.  .  .  .  Oh,  sorry! 
Fellow's  dead.  ...  I  say,  Tristram,  do  you  hear 
that?  Old  Bland-Mainways  is  dead,  and  Bob 
Longford's  married  his  relic — married  her  in  a  week, 

my  boy.    What  do  you  say  to  that?    You  marry  a 

153 


154  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

man's  remains  almost  as  soon  as  he's  remains  him- 
self.   Pretty  manners,  what?  ..." 

Duplessis  took  no  heed;  the  babbler  ran  on.  .  .  . 
^^This  is  my  mater — wonder  what  she's  got  to  say? 
I  rather  funk  the  Dowager.  .  .  .  Hulloa!  By  Gad, 
that's  rum.  I  say,  Duplessis,  did  you  know  a  chap 
called  Senhouse  at  Cambridge  ?  Pembroke,  was  he  ? 
Or  King's?  King's,  I  think  ...  it  was  King's. 
Did  you  know  him?  Jack  Senhouse — John  Sen- 
house — rum  chap." 

^'Eh?  Senhouse?  Oh,  yes,  I  knew  him.  Used 
to  see  him  about."  Duplessis  resumed  his  letters; 
one,  especially,  made  him  frown — then  stare  out  of 
the  window.    He  read  others  but  returned  to  that. 

Lord  Bramleigh  went  on.  ^'I  want  to  tell  you 
about  this  chap  Senhouse.  Of  course,  I  never  knew 
him  at  the  Varsity — ages  before  me,  he  was.  Good 
footer — player — ran  with  the  beagles — ran  like  the 
devil;  rowed  a  bit,  painted  a  bit,  sang  a  damned 
good  song:  Jack  Senhouse.  Well,  he's  mad.  Rich 
chap — at  least,  his  father  was  rich — alderman 
somewhere,  I  b'lieve — say,  Birmingham  .  .  .  one 
of  those  sort  of  places.  Well,  Jack  Senhouse  chucked 
all  that — took  to  painting,  scribbling,  God  knows 
what.  His  governor  gets  cross — sends  him  round  the 
world  on  the  chance  he'll  settle  down  by'n  by.  Not 
he!  Gets  up  to  all  sorts  of  unlawful  games — cuts 
the  ship  and  starts  off  on  his  own  across  Morocco; 
gets  hung  up  at  Fez — row  wnth  a  Shereef  about  his 
wife  or  wives.  Foreign  Office  has  to  get  to  work — 
makes  it  all  right.    Senhouse  goes?    Not  he.    Stays 


THE  NEWS  REACHES   THE  PYRENEES      155 

there  all  the  same — to  learn  the  language,  I'll  ask 
you.  Language  and  plants.  He  collects  plants  in 
the  Atlas.  So  he  goes  on.  Then  he  gets  back  home. 
^Hope  you'll  settle  down  to  the  office,  my  boy,'  says 
his  governor.  'No,  thank  ye,'  says  Jack,  and  doesn't. 
He  was  off  again  on  the  tramp  somewhere — turns 
up  in  Russia — if  Warsaw's  in  Russia — anyhow  he 
turns  up  where  Warsaw  is — talking  to  the  Poles 
about  Revolution.  Still  collects  plants.  They  put 
him  over  the  frontier.  He  goes  to  Siberia  after  plants 
and  politics.  More  rows.  Well,  anyhow,  he  came 
back  a  year  ago,  and  said  he  was  a  tinker.  He'd 
learned  tinkerin'  somewhere  round,  sawderin'  and 
all  that — and  I'm  damned  if  he  didn't  set  up  a  cart 
and  horse  and  go  about  with  a  tent.  He  paints,  he 
scribbles,  he  tinkers,  he  sawders — just  as  he  dam' 
pleases.  And  he  turns  England  into  a  garden,  and 
plants  his  plants.  He's  got  plants  out  all  over  the 
country.  I  tell  you — the  rummiest  chap.  Up  in  the 
Lakes  somewhere  he's  got  a  lot — growin'  wild,  free 
and  easy — says  he  don't  want  hedges  round  his 
things.  'Let  'em  go  as  they  please,'  he  says.  So  he 
turns  the  Land's  End  into  a  rockery  and  stuffs  the 
cracks  with  things  from  the  Alps.  He's  made  me 
promise  him  things  from  the  Pyrenees,  confound 
him — you'll  have  to  help  me  with  'em.  And  irises  on 
Dartmoor — from  the  Caucasus!  And  peonies  grow- 
in'  wild  in  South  Wales — oh,  he's  mad!  You  never 
saw  such  a  chap.  And  so  dam'  reasonable  about  it. 
I  like  the  chap.  He^s  all  right,  you  know.  He's 
been  turned  out  of  every  village  in  England  pretty 


156  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

well,  'cause  he  will  talk  and  will  camp  out,  and  plant 
his  plants  in  other  men's  land.  I  met  him  once  bein' 
kicked  out  of  Dicky  Clavering's  place — regular 
procession — and  old  Jack  sittin'  up  in  his  cart  talkin' 
to  the  policeman  like  an  old  friend.  Admirin'  crowd, 
of  course — the  gels  all  love  him,  he's  so  devilish 
agreeable,  is  Jack.  I  tell  you,  he  learnt  more  than 
one  sort  of  sawderin'.  And  as  for  his  flowers — well, 
you  know  there's  a  language  of  'em.  Well,  now, 
what  do  you  think?  I've  heard  from  the  Dowager, 
and  I'll  be  shot  if  she  hasn't  just  turned  old  Jack  out 
of  my  place!  Found  him  campin'  in  the  park,  with 
one  of  the  maids  boilin'  his  kettle,  and  another  cut- 
tin'  bread  and  butter  for  him.  Plantin'  peonies  he 
was — in  my  park!  Dam'  funny  business;  but  the 
end's  funnier  still.  The  Dowager,  out  driving,  comes 
home — sees  Master  Jack  waiting  for  his  tea.  Stops 
the  carriage — sends  the  footman  to  order  him  off. 
Jack  says  he'll  go  after  tea.  This  won't  suit  the 
Dowager  by  any  means — so  there's  a  row.  Jack 
comes  up  to  explain;  makes  himself  so  infernally 
agreeable  that  I'll  be  jiggered  if  the  Dowager  don't 
ask  him  to  dinner,  and  up  he  turns  in  evenin'  togs, 
just  like  you  or  me.  After  dinner — ^  Good-night,  my 
lady,'  says  Jack.  ^I  must  be  off  early,  as  I've  some 
saucepan  bottoms  waiting  for  me — and  I've  prom- 
ised 'em  for  to-morrow  sharp' — says  Jack.  Now — 
I  say,  I  don't  believe  you've  heard  a  word  of  all  this." 
Duplessis,  I  think,  had  not.  He  had  been  frown- 
ing at  the  glare  outside,  biting  his  cheek;  in  his 
hand  was  a  crumpled-up  letter. 


THE  NEWS   REACHES  THE  PYRENEES      157 

"Look  here,  Bramleigh,  I  must  get  out  of  this,'* 
he  said,  ^'l  want  to  go  home."  Lord  Bramleigh, 
never  to  be  surprised,  emptied  his  tumbler. 

Then  he  asked,  ''What's  up?  No  trouble,  I 
hope?" 

He  had  a  gloomy  stare  for  his  first  answer,  and 
for  second — ''No,  I  don't  say  that.  I  don't  know. 
That's  why  I  am  off — to  see." 

A  man's  pleasure  is  a  matter  of  course  to  your 
Bramleighs :  the  moral  and  social  order  must  accom- 
modate itself  to  that. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Lord  Bramleigh,  there- 
fore.   "When  do  you  go?     To-morrow?" 

"I  go  this  evening."  The  effect  of  this  was  to 
raise  Lord  Bramleigh's  scalp  a  shade  higher. 

"We  swore  we'd  go  to  Madame  Sop's  to-night, 
you  know."  Madame  Sop  was  a  Madame  Sopwith, 
a  lady  of  uncertain  age  and  Oriental  appearance, 
who  gave  card-parties. 

Duplessis  said,  "You  must  make  my  excuses — if 
she  wants  'em.    I'm  going." 

"A  woman,  of  course,"  said  Bramleigh,  tapping 
a  cigarette — but  had  no  answer.  Duplessis  caught 
the  Sun  express,  and,  travelling  straight  through, 
reached  Misperton  Brand  in  less  than  two  days. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  he  was  at  the 
door  of  the  little  house.  Heath  View,  in  Blackheath. 
The  door  was  open,  and  within  the  frame  of  it  stood 
a  tall  young  woman  with  hair  elaborately  puffed 
over  the  ears  and  a  complexion  heightened  by  ex- 
citement. 


158  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

*' Good-afternoon,"  says  Duplessis.  ''Miss  Mid- 
dleham  at  home?" 

"Yes,"  says  Jinny,  "she  is.    Will  you  come  in?" 

He  followed  her  into  the  parlour  and  was  offered 
a  chair.  "Thanks  very  much,"  he  said,  but  did  not 
take  it.  He  stood  by  the  window,  and  Jinny  Mid- 
dleham  stood  by  the  door. 

Presently  Jinny  said,  "I  am  Miss  Middleham, 
you  know.  Or  perhaps  you  didn't  know  it."  Du- 
plessis stared,  then  recovered. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  No,  I  didn't  grasp  that. 
But  you're  not  my  Miss  Middleham." 

"I  didn't  know  that  you  had  one,"  said  Jinny. 
"It's  the  first  I've  heard  of  it." 

He  laughed.  "You'll  think  me  very  rude  in  a 
minute;  but  I'll  explain  to  you.  It  was  your  sister  I 
wanted  to  see.  She  is — a  friend  of  mine.  My  name 
is  Duplessis.  She  may  have  told  you."  Jinny  was 
as  stiff  as  a  poker. 

"I  have  heard  my  sister  speak  of  you,  certainly. 
I  understood  that  you  were — an  acquaintance." 

Duplessis  nodded  easily.  "Put  it  at  that.  I  sup- 
pose I  may  see  her?" 

"She's  away,"  said  Jinny.  "She's  staying  in 
London — with  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Germain." 

He  began  to  bite  his  cheek.  "Can  you  give  me 
Mrs.  Germain's  address?  It's  not  Hill-street,  I 
suppose?" 

Jinny  was  very  happy  just  now.  "I  suppose  that 
a  letter  to  Mrs.  Germain  at  Misperton  would  find 
her.    You  are  related  to  her,  I  believe?" 


THE  NEWS   REACHES  THE  PYRENEES      159 

''My  dear  Miss  Middleham,"  said  Duplessis  can- 
didly, "let's  keep  to  the  point.  It  seems  to  me  that 
you  don't  want  me  to  see  your  sister." 

''Oh,"  says  Jinny,  "it  don't  matter  at  all  to  me." 
He  knit  his  brows. 

"Then  you  mean ?" 

"I  mean,"  said  Jinny,  "that  my  sister  is  going  to 
be  married  to  Mr.  Germain.  That's  what  it  comes 
to." 

Duplessis  bowed.  "I  see.  Thank  you  very 
much.  Then  I  think,  if  you'll  allow  me — "  He 
bowed  again  and  went  towards  the  door.  The  scene 
was  to  be  over.  Jinny  put  her  hand  upon  the  latch. 
"Where  are  you  going?"  she  said,  very  short  of 
breath.    There  was  a  thrill  yet  to  be  got  out  of  this. 

What  was  sport  to  her  mortified  him  to  death. 
"Really,  I  don't  know  that  I  need  trouble  you  any 
more,"  he  said.  "You  will  give  my  kind  regards  to 
your  sister,  I  hope."  But  Jinny  kept  the  door- 
handle in  possession. 

"Mr.  Duplessis,"  she  said,  "I  ought  to  tell  you 
that  my  sister  would  rather  be  excused  from  seeing 
you.  At  least,  she  says  so.  She  said  so  to  me.  You 
best  know  why  that  may  be." 

He  ill  concealed  his  mortification.  "We  won't 
talk  of  your  sister's  affairs,  I  think.  I  am  happy  to 
have  made  your  acquaintance " 

Jinny  tossed  her  head  up.  "My  acquaintance,  as 
you  call  it,  is  for  them  that  want  it.  My  sister's  is 
her  own  business.  I  tell  you  fairly,  Mr.  Duplessis, 
that  she  may  be  very  unhappy." 


l6o  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

He  flashed  her  a  savage  look.  ^^Good  Heavens, 
I  believe  that.  Why,  the  thing's  monstrous!  You 
might  as  well  marry  her  to  a  nunnery.  The  fellow's 
frozen — stark  cold."  Jinny  steadfastly  regarded 
him. 

"You  know  very  well  that  you  never  meant  to 
marry  her,"  she  said.    He  grew  cold  instantly. 

"Once  for  all,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  decline  to  dis- 
cuss your  sister's  affairs  with  any  one  but  herself. 
And  since  you  tell  me  that  I  am  not  to  see  her,  I  will 
ask  you  to  let  me  bid  you  good-afternoon.  I  am 
very  sorry  to  have  given  you  so  much  trouble." 

It  was  over;  there  was  but  one  treatment  for  such 
a  cavalier  in  Jinny's  code  of  manners.  She  opened 
the  door  wide.  "Good-afternoon,"  she  said.  He 
bowed  and  went  out  with  no  more  ceremony. 

He  felt  spotted,  and  was  furious  that  such  a 
squalid  drama  should  have  engaged  him.  A  fluffed 
shop-girl—and  Tristram  Duplessis!  Filthy,  filthy 
business!  But  he  went  directly  to  Hill-street — 
whither  a  telegram  had  preceded  him,  terse  and  sig- 
nificant according  to  Jinny's  sense  of  the  theatre. 
"Look  out,"  it  said. 

That  sent  the  colour  flying  from  Mary's  lips,  and 
lighted  panic  in  her  eyes.  She  crushed  it  into  a  ball 
and  dropped  it;  then  she  went  directly  to  Mrs. 
James  and  asked  leave  to  go  home  for  a  few  days. 
She  shook  as  she  spoke.  She  said  she  was  feeling 
very  tired  and  unlike  herself;  she  wanted  her  mother, 
she  said  simply,  and  as  her  lip  quivered  at  the  pa- 
thetic sound  of  that,  her  eyes  also  filled.    Mrs.  James, 


THE  NEWS   REACHES  THE  PYRENEES     i6l 

not  an  unkind  woman  by  any  means,  was  really 
sympathetic.  "My  dear  child,  I  quite  understand. 
Go  home,  of  course,  and  get  strong  and  well.  Al- 
though you  may  hardly  believe  me,  I  care  very  much 
for  your  happiness — and  John  would  wish  it.  If  he 
could  have  been  here  I  know  he  would  have  taken 
you.  You  shall  have  the  carriage.  Now,  when  would 
you  hke  to ?" 

"At  once,  please,  Mrs.  Germain — at  once.'^  Mrs. 
Germain  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  the  carriage. 
Mary  could  hardly  wait  for  it;  she  spent  the  lagging 
moments  pacing  her  room,  and  before  it  was  fairly 
at  the  door  she  was  on  the  doorstep.  She  took  no 
luggage.  Crouched  in  one  corner  of  the  hatefully 
dawdling  thing,  she  stared  quivering  out  of  the  win- 
dow. At  the  corner  of  the  square  by  Lansdowne 
House  she  gasped  and  cowered.  A  cab  passed  her, 
in  which  sat,  scowling  and  great,  Tristram  Du- 
plessis,  his  arms  folded  over  the  apron.  Did  he — ? 
No,  no,  thank  God,  he  had  not  seen  her.  She  was 
safe  in  the  ladies'  waiting-room;  but  the  traverse  of 
the  platform  was  full  of  peril.  Not  until  the  train 
moved  did  she  feel  herself  safe.  She  hungered  for 
Jinny's  arms  as  never  in  her  life  before.  The  brave, 
the  capable,  the  dauntless  Jinny — Mercy  of  Heaven, 
to  have  given  her  such  a  sister  in  whom  to  confide! 

But  Mrs.  James — the  sweeping  eye  having  lighted 
upon  the  ball  of  paper — Mrs.  James  wrote  to  her 
brother-in-law  that  night: — 

"My  dear  John, — In  case  you  may  be  hurrying 
back  to  town,  I  think  I  should  tell  you  that  Mary 


1 62  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

has  gone  to  her  people  for  a  few  days ;  she  will  write 
me  the  day  and  hour  of  her  return.  There  is  noth- 
ing serious ;  but  she  complained  of  being  overtired — 
not  to  be  wondered  at.  Even  young  ladies  may  find 
the  pleasures  of  shopping  a  tax.  It  is  possible,  I 
think,  that  family  matters,  of  which  I  know  nothing 
— as  I  am  not  in  her  confidence — may  have  called 
her  home.  She  left  this  telegram  here.  ^  Blackheath' 
is  on  the  stamp,  you  will  notice.  Mary  spoke  of  her 
mother  to  me  when  she  said  that  she  must  go,  and 
seemed  unhappy.  I  put  this  down  to  her  being  over- 
wrought— and  no  doubt  you  will  hear  from  her  by 
the  post  which  brings  you  this.  Most  of  my  work 
is  done  here,  I  am  happy  to  say.  I  hope  you  will  be 
pleased  with  Mary's  things.  I  must  say  that  she 
looks  charming  in  her  wedding  gown.  But  Ninon 
may  be  trusted  for  style.  James  is  getting  restive 
without  me.  Soames  is  no  doubt  at  his  tricks  again. 
I  shall  be  glad  to  be  at  my  post.    Your  affecte.  sister, 

"Constantia  Germain." 

'^P.S. — Tristram  is  back  from  San  Sebastian. 
I  had  a  visit  from  him  this  afternoon,  some  three 
minutes  after  Mary  left.  He  asked  after  her.  You 
know  that  they  were  old  acquaintances.  Lord 
Bramleigh  remains  in  Spain.  He  seems  in  no  hurry 
to  greet  his  bride.  She  is  staying  with  the  Gospertons 
at  Brenchmore.  They  expect  him  there  from  day 
to  day." 

Next  day  Mr.  Germain  presented  himself  in  Hill- 
street,  nothing  varied  in  his  deliberate  urbanity.  He 
had  not  heard  from  Mary,  he  said,  in  reply  to  a 


THE  NEWS   REACHES  THE  PYRENEES     163 

question;  there  had  been  no  time  for  a  letter  to 
reach  Southover,  and  the  absence  of  a  telegram  was 
reassuring.  He  intended  to  go  to  Blackheath  in  the 
course  of  the  afternoon.  No  doubt  she  had  over- 
tired herself.  He  applied  himself  to  other  topics  and 
said  nothing  of  Duplessis  nor  of  the  Blackheath 
message  until  luncheon  was  over.  Then,  as  Mrs. 
James  went  by  him  through  the  door  which  he  held 
open  for  her,  he  said,  ^'I  had  forgotten:  you  have 
Tristram  back?  If  he  should  happen  to  call,  pray 
tell  him  that  I  should  be  glad  to  see  him  if  he  could 
spare  me  a  moment." 

Mrs.  James  stopped  in  her  rustling  career.  ''But 
I  don't  think  it  at  all  likely  he  will  call — again,"  she 
said. 

''No?  Very  well.  Perhaps  I  shall  encounter  him 
somewhere.    Or  I  could  write." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Mrs.  James.  "It  is  easy  to 
write."  Then  she  shimmered  away  up  the  stairs. 
He  went  into  the  library,  and,  after  some  pacing  of 
the  floor,  sat  down  to  his  desk,  wrote,  signed,  and 
sealed  a  paper.    He  rang  the  bell. 

"I  wish  you  and  Gutteridge  to  witness  a  paper  for 
me,  Jennings,"  he  said  to  the  man.  "Fetch  him  in 
here,  please."  The  two  functionaries  signed  the 
sheet  as  he  directed  them.  "  Sign  there,  if  you  please, 
Jennings.  And  Gutteridge  below  your  name.  .  .  . 
That  will  do.  Thank  you."  He  put  the  paper  and 
a  crumpled  telegram  together  in  a  long  envelope, 
sealed  it,  and  wrote  shortly  on  the  outside.  He  locked 
it  in  his  desk,  then  resumed  his  pacing  of  the  room. 


1 64  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

As  he  walked  his  lips  moved  to  frame  words — "Im- 
possible! Purity's  self.  .  .  Her  eyes  ray  inno- 
cence. ..." 

But  he  knew  Tristram,  and  could  not  get  his 
leisurely  image  away.  And  Tristram  had  been 
much  at  Misperton;  and  had  a  way  of — his  lips 
moved  again — "My  darling  from  the  lions!  From 
the  power  of  the  dog!"  He  went  back  to  his  desk, 
took  out  the  envelope  he  had  sealed,  and  would  have 
torn  it  across — but  did  not.  Instead,  he  put  it  in  his 
breast-pocket,  and  left  the  house. 

In  the  little  parlour  of  Heath  View  he  stood  pres- 
ently awaiting  her.  Jinny  had  seemed  relieved  to  see 
him  when  she  opened  the  door.  Mary  had  been 
lying  down,  she  said,  and  would  come  when  she  was 
tidy.  He  smiled  and  said  he  would  wait.  He  was 
noticeably  white  and  lined  in  the  face. 

She  came  into  the  room  presently,  flushed  and 
very  bright-eyed.  He  thought  that  she  stood  there 
like  a  mouse  sensing  the  air  for  alarms,  prompt  to 
dart  at  a  pinfall.  His  heart  beat  to  see  the  youth  and 
charm  of  her;  his  pain  was  swallowed  up  in  longing 
for  his  treasured  bliss.  He  almost  sobbed  as  he  held 
out  his  arms.  "Mary — my  child — my  love; — " 
and  when  she  ran  in  and  clung  to  him  with  all  her 
force,  he  clasped  her  in  a  frenzy.  Whatever  dark- 
some fears  his  honest  mind  may  have  harboured, 
whatever  beasts  he  may  have  fought,  there  were 
none  after  such  a  greeting  as  this.  He  poured  out 
his  love  like  water  upon  her,  kissed  her  wet  cheeks 
and  shining  eyes,  and  with,  "There,  my  little  lamb, 


THE  NEWS   REACHES   THE  PYRENEES     165 

there,  my  pretty  one,  be  at  rest,  be  at  peace  with 
me,"  he  soothed  her,  and  felt  the  panic  of  her  heart 
to  die  down.  Then,  sitting,  he  drew  her  to  his  knees 
and  let  her  lie  awhile  with  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

She  whispered  in  his  ear,  "Oh,  it  was  sweet  of  you 
to  come!  I  wanted  you  dreadfully — you  don't  know." 

"No,  my  precious  one,  I  don't  indeed.  But  I  am 
well  content  that  you  should  haye  needed  me.  I 
pray  that  you  always  will,  and  that  I  may  never  fail 
you." 

She  lifted  her  head  back  to  look  at  him;  she 
smiled  like  an  April  day.  ^^You  fail  me!  Oh,  no, 
you'll  never  do  that."  And  of  her  own  accord  she 
kissed  him.    The  good  man  simply  adored  her. 

"Now  will  you  tell  me  what  upset  you  so  much?" 
he  asked  her,  but  she  shook  her  head  roguishly  and 
said  that  she  didn't  know.  "It  was  my  stupidity — 
I  was  frightened — suddenly  frightened  of  all  the 
grandeur — the  great  rooms,  the  butler  and  footmen 
— the  people  in  carriages  who  called — "  She 
stopped  here,  her  large  eyes  full  upon  his  own.  She 
breathed  very  fast.  Then  she  said,  "That's  partly 
the  truth — but  there's  more." 

He  could  not  bear  it.  He  could  not  face  what  she 
had  to  say.  He  knew  that  he  was  a  coward,  but  he 
could  not;  despised  himself,  but  could  not. 

He  clasped  her  close.  "Tell  me  nothing  more, 
darling  child.  You  will  reproach  yourself,  and  I 
cannot  bear  it." 

She  struggled  to  be  free.  "  Oh,  listen,  listen  to  me, 
please!" 


1 66  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

He  kissed  her  with  passion.  "My  life  is  yours; 
would  you  rob  me  of  it?    I  cannot  listen  to  you " 

She  gave  over,  and  lay  with  hidden  face  until  she 
dared  to  look  up  again.  Then,  when  both  were 
calmer,  she  showed  her  serious  face.  Playing  with 
his  eyeglasses,  she  did  relieve  her  mind  of  one  of  her 
fears.  "Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "unless  you  are 
with  me — always — I  am  sure  that  I  shall  do  some- 
thing mad,  or  bad.  Run  away  from  it  all — hide  my- 
self." She  nodded  her  head  sadly.  "Yes,  I'm  quite 
sure."  He  could  afford  to  look  at  the  future,  not  the 
past. 

"Why,  then,  my  love,  I  shall  be  with  you  always — 
night  and  day.  Do  you  hear  me?  Night  and  day' 
How  will  you  like  that  ?  "  She  hung  her  head,  peered 
up  at  him  for  a  second,  and  hung  her  head  again. 
He  could  do  nothing  but  kiss  her  after  that. 

He  stayed  to  tea,  which  she  prepared  with  her  own 
quick  hands.  She  and  Jinny  entertained  him,  and 
he  had  never  liked  that  pronounced  young  woman 
so  well.  It  was  her  birthday,  Jinny's  birthday,  he 
was  told.  "A  few  days  only  from  mine,"  he  said, 
with  a  fine  smile  to  Mary,  which  made  her  under- 
stand him,  and  blush.  "Twenty-nine  to-day,"  said 
Jinny  candidly,  cutting  cake.  "This  is  my  cake, 
Mr.  Germain.    I  suppose  you'll  give  Mary  a  better 


one." 


"I  shall  give  her  the  best  I  can,  Miss  Jinny,  you 
may  be  sure,"  he  said  heartily,  and  she  nodded  to  him 
her  confidence  in  his  love.  He  treated  her  with 
grave  politeness,  which  lost  all  its  distance  by  the 


THE  NEWS   REACHES   THE  PYRENEES     167 


evident  interest  he  took  in  her  affairs.  She  gave 
herself  no  airs  or  graces,  was  neither  pert  nor  sniffing 
for  offence,  nor  airy,  nor  merely  odious.  Germain's 
own  manners  were  so  fine,  so  based  upon  candour 
and  honesty  that  one  could  not  fail  to  respond. 
Even  Jinny  Middleham  forgot  herself;  and  as  for 
Mary 5  she  sat  quietly  on  the  watch,  really  happy, 
really  at  ease  about  the  dread  future — and  whatever 
terrors  she  may  have  owed  to  Tristram  she  had  none 
now.  Yet  she  was  to  have  one  more  chance.  At 
parting  she  clung  to  him  again,  and  begged  him  not 
to  leave  her  for  long.  "I'm  safe  with  you — I  feel 
that.    Oh,  how  did  you  make  me  like  you?" 

"By  liking  you  myself,  I  expect,  httle  witch." 

"I'm  not  a  witch.  I'm  a  dunce,  and  you  know 
that  I  am.    But  listen " 

"I  listen,  dearest." 

"I  am  going  to  be  the  best  girl  in  the  world.  I'm 
going  to  do  everything  that  you  tell  me — always." 

"Beloved,  I  am  sure." 

"Wait.  You  haven't  forgotten  what  you  prom- 
ised me?" 

"What  was  that?" 

"You  have  forgotten!  Oh,  but  you  must  never 
forget  it.    It  is  important — to  me." 

"Tell  me  again." 

"It  was — always  to  ask  me  before  you  believe 
anything  against  me.  That  was  it — and  you  prom- 
ised." He  took  her  face  between  his  hands  and 
looked  long  into  her  eyes. 

"My  dearest  heart,"  he  said,  "I'll  promise  you 


1 68  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

better.  Not  only  shall  I  never  believe  anything 
against  you — but  I  shall  never  even  ask  you  of  the 
fact.    Never,  never." 

She  searched  his  face — her  eyes  wandered  over  it, 
doubting,  judging,  considering. 

"I  had  rather  you  asked  me,"  she  told  him;  but 
his  answer  was  to  kiss  her  lips. 

She  went  with  him  to  the  garden  gate,  seemed 
most  unwilling  that  he  should  go.  Farewells  spoken, 
her  ring-hand  kissed,  she  stood  watching  him  down 
the  terrace,  and  then,  as  he  never  looked  back, 
walked  slowly  into  the  house  and  shut  the  door. 
Had  she  stayed  a  moment  longer  she  would  have  seen 
an  encounter  he  had  at  the  corner  where  you  turn  up 
for  the  station.  Perhaps  it  was  better  as  it  was; 
I  don't  know.  He  had  paused  there  to  hail  a  fly 
with  his  umbrella,  and  having  faced  round  towards 
his  way,  saw  Duplessis  advancing  towards  him.  He 
felt  himself  turn  cold  and  sick.  The  fly  drew  up. 
^'Wait  for  me  where  you  are,"  he  said,  and  went  to 
meet  the  young  man.  Duplessis  saw  him  on  a  sud- 
den; his  eyes,  blue  by  nature,  grew  steely  and  in- 
tensely narrow. 

^'Good-evening,  Tristram,"  said  Germain.  "Con- 
stantia  told  me  of  your  return."  Duplessis  dug  the 
pavement  with  his  stick. 

*'Did  she?    Well,  it  is  true,  you  see." 

*'I  do  see.  You  are  going  to  pay  Mary  a  visit,  I 
suppose.  She's  not  very  well,  I'm  sorry  to  say — a 
little  overtired.  Otherwise,  I  am  sure  she  would 
have  been  delighted." 


THE  NEWS   REACHES   THE  PYRENEES     169 

Duplessis  made  no  reply,  and  the  other  continued : 
*'I  told  Constantia  that  I  hoped  to  see  you — to  tell 
you  a  small  piece  of  news.  I  am  about  to  be  married 
again.  Mary  has  been  so  kind  as  to  confide  her 
future  happiness  into  my  hands.  Perhaps  you  won't 
misunderstand  me  if  I  say  that  some  little  fraction  of 
that  happiness  depends  upon  her  not  seeing  you  for 
the  moment.  When  she  is  rested,  we  may  hope — 
The  wedding  will  naturally  be  a  very  quiet  one. 
Her  people  wish  it,  and  my  taste  agrees  with  theirs. 
Otherwise  we  should  have  liked  to  have  you  among 
our  guests.  We  promise  ourselves  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  at  Southover  in  the  near  future.  I  think 
the  place  will  please  you.  You  must  give  an  account 
of  my  pheasants  in  December." 

"That's  very  good  of  you,  Germain,"  said  Du- 
plessis, looking  him  full  in  the  face. 

Mr.  Germain  turned  to  his  waiting  fly.  "Have 
you  other  engagements  in  Blackheath?" 

"None,"  said  Duplessis. 

"No?  Then  perhaps  I  can  offer  you  a  seat  in 
my  carriage." 

"Thanks,"  said  Duplessis,  "I'm  walking;" 
nodded,  and  went  forward,  the  way  of  the  heath. 

"The  station,"  said  Mr.  Germain. 

He  could  thank  God,  at  least,  that  she  had  not 
meant  to  deceive  him;  he  could  thank  God,  at  least, 
that  she  had  done  with  the  past.  But  he  had  re- 
ceived a  mortal  wound,  and  after  his  manner  con- 
cealed it.  His  lovely  image  was  soiled;  the  glass  of 
his  life  to  come  dimmed  already.    He  saw  nothing 


I70  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

more  of  Mary  until  the  wedding  day,  though  he 
wrote  to  her  in  his  usual  fashion  and  on  his  usual 
days.  "My  dear  child,"  and  ''Yours  with  sincere 
affection."  She  did  not  guess  that  anything  was 
amiss,  could  not  know  what  they  had  cost  him  to 
write  them  twice  a  week.  His  brother  and  sister-in- 
law  noticed  his  depression.  Mrs.  James  indeed  was 
tempted  to  believe  that,  at  the  eleventh  hour — but 
the  Rector  knew  him  better.  All  his  forces  were  now 
to  put  heart  in  the  bridegroom.  He  spoke  much  of 
Mary. 


XV 

A  PHILOSOPHER  EMBALES 

That  young  man  with  the  look  of  a  faun,  at  once 
sleepy  and  arch,  the  habit  of  a  philosopher  and  the 
taste  for  gardening  at  large,  whom  we  have  seen  very 
much  at  his  ease  in  society  quite  various,  was  by 
name  Senhouse — patronym,  Senhouse,  in  the  faith 
John,  to  the  world  of  his  familiars  Jack  Senhouse, 
and  to  many  Mad  Jack.  But  madness  is  a  term  of 
convenience  to  express  relations,  and  to  him,  it  may 
well  be,  the  world  was  mad.  He  thought,  for  in- 
stance, that  Lord  Bramleigh  was  mad,  to  whom  we 
are  now  to  hear  him  talking,  as  much  at  his  length 
and  as  much  at  his  ease  as  of  late  we  saw  him  in  the 
company  of  Miss  Mary  Middleham,  or  of  Miss 
Hertha  de  Speyne  of  the  Cantacute  stem. 

Perhaps  he  was  more  at  his  ease.  He  lay,  at  any 
rate,  before  his  tent,  full  length  upon  his  stomach, 
his  crook'd  elbows  supported  his  face,  which  was 
wrinkled  between  his  hands.  His  pipe,  grown  cold 
by  delay,  lay  on  the  sward  before  him.  One  leg, 
from  the  knee,  made  frequent  excursions  towards 
the  sky,  and  when  it  did,  discovered  itself  lean  and 

sinewy,  bare  of  sock.    His  sweater  was  now  blue,  and 

171 


172  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

his  trousers  were  grey;  it  was  probable  he  had  no 
more  clothing  upon  him.  Upon  a  camp-stool  near 
by  sat  Lord  Bramleigh  of  the  round  face,  corded 
and  gaitered,  high-collared  and  astare.  To  express 
bewilderment,  he  whistled;  concerned,  he  smiled. 

"Well,"  he  said  presently,  "I  think  you  might. 
We're  short  of  a  gun — IVe  told  you  so." 

'^My  dear  man,"  said  the  other,  "I  shoot  no  birds. 
I'd  as  soon  shoot  my  sister." 

"That's  rot,  you  know.  Jack." 

"To  me  it's  plain  sense.  God  save  you,  Bram- 
leigh, have  you  ever  seen  a  bird  fly?  It's  the  most 
marvellous — no,  it's  not,  because  we're  all  marvels 
together;  but  I'll  tell  you  this — boys  frisking  after 
a  full  meal,  girls  at  knucklebones,  a  leopard  stalking 
from  a  bough,  horses  in  a  windy  pasture — whatever 
you  like  of  the  sort  has  been  done,  and  well  done — 
but  a  bird  in  flight,  never!  There's  no  greater  sight 
— and  you'll  flare  into  it  with  your  filthy  explosives 
and  shatter  a  miracle  into  blood  and  feathers. 
Beastly  work,  my  boy,  butchers'  work." 

"Rot,"  said  Bramleigh — "but  of  course  you're 
mad.  Why  are  my  cartridges  filthier  than  your  pots 
of  paint?    Hey?" 

"Well,  I  make  something,  you  see— or  try  to,  and 
you  blow  it  to  smithereens —  However,  we  won't 
wrangle,  Bramleigh.  You're  a  nice  little  man,  after 
all.  Those  Ramondias — it  was  really  decent  of 
you." 

"Much  obliged,"  said  the  young  lord;  and  then — 
"I  say,  talking  of  the  Pyrenees,  you  knew  Duplessis? 


A  PHILOSOPHER   EMBALES  173 

He's  our  man  short.  He's  chucked,  you  know.  He's 
awfully  sick."    Senhouse  was  but  faintly  interested. 

^'Yes,  I  knew  him — Cleverish — conceited  ass. 
What's  he  sick  about  ?  " 

^'Gel.  Gel  goin'  to  be  married — to-day  or  some- 
thing— end  of  September,  I  know.  Tristram's  mad 
about  it.  He  was  at  San  Sebastian  with  me  when  he 
heard  about  it — and  bolted  off  like  a  rabbit — mad 
rabbit." 

Senhouse  yawned.  **  We're  all  mad  according  to 
you,  you  know.  So  I  take  something  off.  I  can 
understand  his  sort  of  madness,  anyhow.  Who's  the 
lady?" 

*^0h,  I  don't  know  her  myself.  Gel  down  at  his 
place — in  a  poor  sort  of  way,  I  b'lieve.  Companion 
or  something — he  played  about — and  now  she's  been 
picked  up  by  a  swell  connexion  of  his — old  Germain 
of  Southover.  Be  shot,  if  he's  not  going  to  marry 
her." 

The  lengthy  philosopher  smiled  to  himself,  but 
gave  no  other  sign  of  recognition  until  he  said,  "I 
know  that  lady.  Brown-eyed,  sharp-eyed,  quick, 
sleek,  mouse  of  a  girl." 

^^Dessay,"  said  Lord  Bramleigh.  "They  know 
their  way  about."  The  philosopher  threw  himself 
upon  his  back  and  gazed  into  the  sky. 

''Yes,  and  what  a  way,  good  Lord!  Idol-hunting 
— panting  after  idols.  Maims  herself  and  expects 
Heaven  as  a  reward.  I  don't  suppose  that  she  has 
been  herself  since  she  left  her  mother's  lap.  And 
now,  with  an  alternative  of  being  sucked  dry  and 


174  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

pitched  away,  she  is  to  be  slowly  starved  to  death. 
I  only  saw  her  once — no,  twice.  She  had  what  struck 
me  as  unusual  capacities  for  happiness — zest,  curi- 
osity, health — but  no  chances  of  it  whatsoever.  Ig- 
norant— oh,  Lord!  They  make  me  weep,  that  sort. 
So  pretty  and  so  foolish.  But  there,  if  I  once  began 
to  cry,  I  should  dissolve  in  mist." 

''Oh,  come,"  said  Lord  Bramleigh,  "I  don't 
think  she's  doin'  badly  for  herself.  She  was  nobody, 
you  know,  and  old  Germain — well,  he's  a  somebody. 
He's  a  connexion  of  mine,  through  his  sister-in-law 
— she  was  Constantia  Telfer — so  I  know  he's  all 
right." 

"I'll  do  her  the  justice  to  say,"  Senhouse  reflected 
aloud,  ''that  she  didn't  sell  herself — she's  not  a 
prostitute.  She's  a  baby — pure  baby.  She  was 
dazzled,  and  misunderstood  the  sensation.  She 
thought  she  was  touched.  She's  positively  grateful 
to  the  man — didn't  see  how  she  was  to  refuse.  She's 
a  donkey,  no  doubt — but  she  had  pretty  ways.  She 
could  have  been  inordinately  happy — but  she's  not 
going  to  be.  She's  in  for  troubles,  and  I'm  sorry. 
I  liked  her." 

"She'd  better  look  out  for  Tristram,  I  can  tell 
you,"  said  Bramleigh.  "He's  an  ugly  customer,  if 
he  don't  have  his  rights.  Not  that  there  were  any 
rights,  so  far  as  I  know — but  that  makes  no  differ- 
ence to  Tristram." 

"Is  she  worth  his  while?    I  doubt  it." 

"She  will  be.  Germain's  rich.  Besides,  Tristram 
sticks  up  for  his  rights — tenacious  beggar." 


A  PHILOSOPHER  EMBALES  175 

^^  Should  have  been  kicked  young,"  quoth  the 
philosopher,  and  sped  Lord  Bramleigh  on  his  way. 

^^Mary  Middleham,  O  Mary  of  the  brown  eyes 
and  pretty  mouth,  I  should  like  to  see  you  married!" 
he  thought,  as  he  packed  his  tent.  "There's  a  woman 
inside  you,  my  friend;  you  weren't  given  her  form 
for  nothing.  You  are  not  going  to  be  married  yet 
awhile,  you  know.  It'll  take  more  than  a  going  to 
church  to  do  that.  You've  got  to  be  a  woman  first — 
and  you're  not  yet  born!" 

He  lifted  a  shallow  box  of  earth,  and  fingered 
some  plants  in  it.  "Ramondias — beauties!  One  of 
these  springs  there'll  be  a  cloud  of  your  mauve  flush- 
ing a  black  cliff  over  the  green  water.  There's  a 
palette  to  have  given  old  England!  Mauve,  wet 
black,  and  sea-green.  I  have  the  very  place  for  you, 
out  of  reach  of  any  save  God  and  the  sea-mews  and 
me.  But  even  with  them  you  won't  have  a  bad  'as- 
sistance.' That's  a  clever  word,  for  how  is  the  artist 
going  to  make  a  masterpiece  unless  the  public  makes 
half  of  it?  Black,  mauve,  and  green — all  wet  to- 
gether!    We'll    make   a   masterpiece    in    England 

y  ^  L  •      •      •      • 

''That  girl's  great  eyes  haunt  me.  Lakes  of 
brown  wonder — they  were  the  colour  of  moorland 
water — a  dainty  piece!  I  could  see  love  in  her — she 
was  made  for  it.  A  dark  hot  night  in  summer,  and 
she  in  your  arms.  .  .  .  !  Good  Lord,  when  the 
beast  in  a  man  gets  informed  by  the  mind  of  a  god — 
there's  no  ecstasy  beyond  the  sun  to  compare  with 

XL*      •      •      • 


176  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

^'Two  things  worth  the  world — :  Power,  and 
Giving.  When  a  girl  gives  you  her  soul  in  her  body, 
and  you  pour  it  all  back  into  her  lap,  you  are  spend- 
ing like  a  king.  Why  do  women  mourn  Christ  on 
His  cross?  Where  else  would  He  choose  to  be?  A 
royal  giver!  To  have  the  thing  to  give — and  to  give 
it  all!    He  was  to  be  envied,  not  mourned.  .  .  . 

"Old  Germain — what's  he  doing  but  playing  the 
King  on  the  Cross.  He  feels  it — we  all  feel  it — but 
has  he  got  anything  to  give  ?  It's  an  infernal  shame. 
He's  bought  the  child.  She'll  never  forgive  him; 
she'll  harden,  she'll  be  pitiless — have  no  mercy  when 
the  hour  strikes.  There'll  be  horrors — it  ought  to 
be  stopped.    I've  half  a  mind 

"Damn  it,  no!  She  must  go  to  school.  If  there's 
woman  in  her,  after  travail  she'll  be  bom.  .  .  . 

"To  school?  To  Duplessis?  Is  he  to  school  her, 
poor  wretch?  What  are  his  'rights?'  Squatter's 
rights,  you  may  suppose.  So  she's  to  be  a  doll  for 
Germain  to  dandle,  or  an  orange  for  Duplessis  to 
suck,  and  betwixt  the  feeding  and  the  draining  a 
woman's  to  be  born!  Wife,  who's  no  wife,  mistress 
for  an  hour — and  a  pretty  flower  with  the  fruit  un- 
formed. .  .  . 

"If  I  bedeck  the  bosom  of  England  and  star  it  with 
flowers,  do  I  do  better  than  Germain  with  his  money, 
or  Duplessis  with  his  rights  ?  And  if  I  were  to  court 
her  bosom  .  .  .  Oh,  my  brown-eyed  venturer  in 
deep  waters,  I  could  serve  you  well!  Go  to  school, 
go  to  school,  missy — and  when  you  are  tired,  there's 
Halfway  House!" 


A  PHILOSOPHER  EMBALES  177 

That  evening  under  the  hunter's  moon  he  struck 
his  camp.  He  had  told  young  Bramleigh  that  he 
was  soon  for  the  West,  where  he  preferred  to  winter. 
"I  shall  be  in  Cornwall  by  November,"  he  had  said, 
'^and  that's  time  enough;"  and  this  being  late  Sep- 
tember, it  is  clear  that  he  projected  a  leisurely  prog- 
ress from  Northamptonshire,  where  he  now  was,  to 
the  Cornish  Sea.  He  had  indeed  no  reason  for 
hurry,  but  many  for  delay.  That  fairest  of  all  sea- 
sons to  the  poet's  mind — that  *^  close  bosom-friend 
of  the  maturing  sun"  was  to  him  foster-mother, 
whether  her  drowsy  splendours  fed  him  or  he  felt  the 
tonic  of  her  chill  after-breath.  He  worked  out,  he 
said,  in  winter  what  he  had  dreamed  in  the  autumn, 
and  he  could  afford  to  lose  no  hours  from  her  lap. 

Loafer  deliberately,  incurably  a  tramp,  he  was 
never  idle — whether  mending  kettles  or  painting 
masterpieces  (for  he  had  a  knack  of  colour  which 
now  and  then  warranted  that  word),  his  real  interest 
was  in  watching  life  and  in  establishing  a  base  broad 
enough  or  simple  enough  to  uphold  it  all.  He  was 
not  too  proud  to  learn  from  the  beasts,  nor  enough  of 
a  prig  to  ignore  his  two-legged  neighbours:  but  for 
the  life  of  him  he  could  not  see  wherein  a  Lord 
Bramleigh  differed  from  a  ploughboy,  or  a  Mary  Mid- 
dleham  from  a  hen  partridge — and  it  was  a  snare  laid 
for  him  that  he  was  constantly  to  be  tempted  to  over- 
look the  fact  that  they  differed  at  least  in  this,  that 
they  had  the  chance  of  differing  considerably.  He 
would  have  been  greatly  shocked  to  be  told  that  he 
was  a  cynic,  and  yet  intellectually  he  was  nothing 


1 78  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

more.  He  did  himself  the  honour  of  believing  most 
people  to  be  donkeys:  if  they  were  not,  why  under 
the  sun  did  they  not  do  as  he  was  doing  ? 

The  answer  to  that  was  that  if  they  did,  he  would 
immediately  do  something  else,  and  find  plenty 
reasons  to  support  him.  He  had  not  worked  that 
out — but  it^s  true. 

It  was  also  true — as  he  had  told  Mar}^  Middleham 
— that  he  lived  from  hand  to  mouth.  His  father, 
Alderman  Senhouse,  J. P.,  of  Dingeley,  in  the  North- 
ern Midlands,  was  proprietor  of  the  famous  Dingeley 
Main  Colliery,  and  extremely  rich.  His  mother  had 
been  a  Battersby,  well  connected,  therefore.  He  had 
been  to  Rugby  and  to  Cambridge,  just  as  Duplessis 
had  been,  and  at  the  same  times;  like  Duplessis  he 
idled,  but  unlike  him,  he  cost  no  man  anything.  For 
his  needs,  which  were  very  simple,  he  could  make 
enough  by  his  water-colours,  a  portrait  here  and 
there,  an  essay,  a  poem.  Then — and  that  was  true, 
too — he  had  the  art  and  mystery  of  tinkering  at  his 
disposition.  He  had  earned  his  place  in  the  guild  of 
tinkers — a  very  real  body — by  more  than  one  battle. 
He  was  accepted  as  an  eccentric  whose  whim  was  to 
be  taken  seriously — and  as  such  he  made  his  way. 
He  had  never  asked  his  father  for  a  sixpence  since 
he  left  Cambridge  and  was  on  very  friendly  terms 
with  him.  His  brothers  took  the  world  more  strenu- 
ously; one  was  partner  at  the  colliery,  another  in 
Parliament,  a  third — the  first  born— was  Recorder 
of  Towcester. 

So  much  for  his  talents — now  for  his  accomplish- 


A  PHILOSOPHER   EMBALES  179 

ments.  He  was  an  expert  woodman,  a  friend  to  every 
furred  and  feathered  thing,  could  handle  adders 
without  fear,  and  was  said  to  know  more  about  pole- 
cats, v/here  they  could  still  be  found,  and  when,  than 
any  man  in  England.  He  had  seen  more  badgers  at 
ease  than  most  people,  and  was  infallible  at  finding 
a  fox.  All  herbs  he  loved,  and  knew  their  virtues; 
a  very  good  gardener  in  the  West  said  that  the  gen- 
tleman-tinker could  make  a  plant  grow.  There's  no 
doubt  he  had  a  knack,  as  the  rock-faces  between 
Land's  End  and  St.  Ives  could  testify — and  may 
yet.  He  had  a  garden  out  there,  which  he  was  now 
on  the  way  to  inspect.  But  he  had  many  gardens — 
that  was  his  passion.  He  was  but  newly  come  from 
one  in  Cumberland. 

He  said  of  himself  that  he  was  a  pagan  suckled  in 
a  creed  outworn,  and  that  he  was  safely  weaned. 
There  was  a  touch  of  the  faun  about  him ;  he  had  no 
self-consciousness  and  occasionally  more  frankness 
than  was  convenient.  The  number  of  his  acquaint- 
ance was  extraordinary,  and,  in  a  sense,  so  was  that 
of  his  friends — for  he  had  none  at  all.  Accessible  as 
he  was  up  to  a  point,  beyond  that  point  I  know  no- 
body who  could  say  he  had  ever  explored  Senhouse. 
That  was  where  the  secretiveness  of  the  wild  creature 
peeped  out.  Nobody  had  ever  said  of  him  that  he 
had  loved,  either  because  nobody  knew — or  because 
nobody  told.  Yet  his  way  with  women  was  most 
effective;  it  was  to  ignore  their  sex.  "I  liked  her," 
he  would  say  meditatively  of  a  woman — and  add, 
'^She  was  a  donkey,  of  course."    You  could  make 


i8o  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

little  of  a  phrase  of  the  sort — yet  one  would  be  glad 
to  know  the  woman's  opinion.  We  have  seen  that 
he  could  be  a  sympathetic  listener,  we  know  that  he 
could  be  more,  in  moments  of  difficulty — ^and  there 
we  stop. 

Lastly,  I  am  not  aware  that  he  had  any  shame. 
He  seems  always  to  have  done  exactly  as  he  pleased 
— until  he  was  stopped  by  some  guardian  of  custom 
or  privilege.  This  frequently  happened;  but  so  far 
as  I  can  learn  the  only  effect  upon  Senhouse  was  to 
set  him  sauntering  elsewhere — to  do  exactly  as  he 
pleased.  He  never  lost  his  temper,  was  never  out  of 
spirits,  drank  wine  when  he  could  get  it,  but  found 
water  quite  palatable.  He  was  perfectly  sincere  in 
his  professions,  and  owned  nothing  in  the  world  but 
his  horse  and  cart,  Bingo,  the  materials  of  his  trade, 
and  some  clothes  which  had  not  been  renewed  for 
five  years.  We  leave  him  at  present,  pushing  to  the 
West. 


XVI 

THE  WEDDING  DAY 

Saint  Saviour's  Church  was  by  many  sizes  too 
large  for  the  party — a  modern  edifice  in  the  Gothic 
taste,  carried  out  in  pink  brick  with  white  facings. 
It  was  large  and  smelt  of  damp.  The  bridegroom 
wore  his  overcoat  throughout  the  ceremony.  It  was 
distinctly  high,  and  Mrs.  James's  hands  were  many 
times  up,  and  her  eyes  all  about  for  witness  of  the 
"frippery"  they  beheld.  Stations  of  the  Cross  were 
affixed  to  the  pillars  of  the  nave,  lamps  twinkled  in 
the  sanctuary;  dimly  in  an  aisle  she  made  out  the 
plaster  effigy  of  a  beardless  young  man  in  the  Capu- 
chin habit,  pink  cheeks,  and  a  fringe,  who  carried 
lilies  in  a  sheaf.  "The  hermaphrodite,"  Mrs.  James 
did  not  scruple  to  call  him  for  his  pains.  "Can  we 
not  have  some  of  these  things  taken  out?"  she  had 
asked  her  lord ;  but  the  Rector  was  precise  that  they 
must  have  a  faculty,  and  that  they  were  ten  minutes 
late  as  it  was.  He  was  to  officiate,  that  was  one 
comfort;  but  it  diminished  the  bridegroom's  party 
by  one. 

That  occupied,  barely,  the  front  pew  on  the  right; 
the  bride's  company  that  of  the  left.     Mrs.  James, 

i8i 


i82  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

Lady  Barbara  Rewish,  an  old  friend.  Miss  Germain, 
a  pale  sister,  Mr.  Gradeley,  Q.C.,  who  was  best  man, 
and  smiled  at  his  own  thoughts,  and  the  Right  Hon. 
Constantine  Jess,  like  a  large  comfortable  cat,  who 
had  been  President  of  the  Board  of  Trade  and  hoped 
to  be  again;  that  was  all — but  it  was  too  much  for 
the  Middleham  connexion,  which  shrank  into  a  row 
of  ciphers  as  the  rite  proceeded. 

Jinny  Middleham,  whose  shyness  was  taken  for 
impudence,  would  have  made  a  very  handsome 
appearance  if  she  had  not  been  so  painfully  aware 
of  it;  the  bride,  shorter  by  a  head,  looked  like  a 
child.  She  wore  pale  grey  cloth  and  feathers,  and 
had  a  black  hat.  All  that  art  could  do  for  her  had 
been  done;  her  slight  figure  was  enhanced,  her  little 
feet  seemed  smaller,  her  gloves  were  perfect — and 
yet,  as  Mrs.  James  recognized  with  lead  in  the  heart, 
if  John  had  picked  her  up  in  her  poppies  and  white 
muslin,  and  married  her  then  and  there  one  could 
have  understood  it.  A  man  might  love  a  milkmaid 
— but  a  little  doll  in  a  smart  frock,  a  suburban  miss 
in  masquerade — ah,  the  pity  of  it!  And  yet  the 
girl's  eyes  were  like  stars,  and  her  face,  if  it  was  pale, 
was  serious  enough.  ''It  won't  do — it  will  not  do," 
said  Mrs.  James  to  herself — ''I  despair."  She  de- 
spaired from  the  moment  of  the  bride's  entry  upon 
the  arm  of  her  little  anxious  whiskered  father — when 
she  saw  old  Lady  Barbara  raise  her  lorgnette  upon  the 
group  for  one  minute — and  drop  it  again,  and  snuggle 
into  her  lace.  ''There's  nothing  in  it — not  even  ro- 
mance," that  look  told  Mrs.  James.     "It's  ridiculous 


THE  WEDDING   DAY  183 

— it's  rather  low — but  here  I  am.  And  Germain's  an 
old  friend."  Lady  Barbara  Rewish,  alone  among  his 
equals,  sometimes  called  Mr.  Germain  Jack. 

That  anything  possibly  low  could  be  set  beside 
Mr.  Germain  seemed  incredible — but,  if  credible, 
then  tragic.  He  wore  race  in  every  span  of  his  tall, 
thin  figure,  in  every  line  of  his  fastidious,  patient  face. 
His  simplicity  was  manifest,  his  courtesy  never  at 
fault.  The  slight  stoop  towards  her  which  he  gave  his 
bride  as  she  drew  level  with  him — the  humble  ap- 
peal, the  hope  and  the  asking — should  have  struck 
the  word  from  his  old  friend's  mind.  Thus  a  man 
defers  to  a  queen,  she  might  have  said — and  yet  in 
that  she  did  not  she  was  wiser,  perhaps,  in  her  gen- 
eration than  the  children  of  light.  Germain  was 
really,  now  and  throughout  the  ceremony,  revelling 
in  the  aesthetic.  The  position,  in  its  pathos  and  its 
triviality  at  once,  appealed  to  the  sensual  in  him. 
How  lovely  her  humility,  how  exquisite,  how  pure 
his  pride!  Benevolence!  Behold,  I  stoop  and  pick 
for  my  breast  this  hedgerow  thing!  See  it  for  what 
it  is  in  all  this  state — see  it  trembling  here  upon  the 
edge  of  a  new  world !  Is  not  this  to  be  loved  indeed 
— where  I  only  give,  and  she  must  look  to  me  alone  ? 
To  be  sought  as  a  mother  by  a  frightened  child,  to 
be  source  and  fountain  of  all,  to  give — this  is  to  be 
happy.  And,  incapable  of  expressing  it  by  a  sign,  he 
was  at  this  moment  supremely  happy,  and,  though 
he  would  have  been  aghast  at  the  thought,  supremely 
luxurious.  He  was,  in  fact,  indulging  appetite  in  the 
only  way  possible  to  him. 


1 84  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

The  Rector  of  Misperton,  safe  behind  his  panoply 
of  shrugging  eyebrows,  hardened,  too,  by  use  and 
wont,  administered  the  rite  with  calm  precision. 
The  words  were  said: — "I,  John,  take  thee,  Mary 
Susan,"  "I,  Mary  Susan,  take  thee,  John" — how 
she  murmured  them  and  how  he  loved  her! — the 
book  was  signed — but  Mr.  Gradeley,  Q.C.,  had  no 
pleasantries  at  his  command,  and  Mr.  Constantine 
Jess  had  never  had  any.  Old  Lady  Barbara  kissed 
the  cold  bride,  and  hoped  she  would  be  happy. 
*^I'm  sure  he's  in  love  with  you,"  she  said,  ^'and  you 
must  be  good  to  him.  I've  been  in  love  with  him  my- 
self any  time  these  ten  years.  But  he  wouldn't  look 
at  me — and  I  don't  wonder.  I'm  such  a  wicked  old 
woman."  She  told  the  tale  on  the  way  to  the  Wheat- 
sheaf  Hotel,  where  the  bride  was  to  be  sped,  of  how 
poor  old  Lord  Morfiter  had  married  his  cook — ^'She 
was  a  Viennese — and,  of  course,  they  are  wonderful 
— such  tact!  Or  is  it  the  stays?  There's  a  place  in 
Wigmore-street.  At  any  rate,  it  worked  very  well, 
and  really  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  No  one 
understood  him  so  well  as  she  had — no  one!  She 
always  cooked  for  him  when  they  were  alone — or 
had  one  or  two  people  dining.  Perhaps  it'll  be  all 
right  here." 

Mr.  Jess  bowed.  '^I  sincerely  hope  so.  But — 
forgive  me — do  I  understand — ?  Was  Mrs.  Ger- 
main  ." 

"Lord  bless  us,  no!"  cried  Lady  Barbara.  ''I 
don't  suppose  she  ever  saw  a  cutlet,  off  a  dish.  A 
Bath  bun  and  a  cup  of  coffee  is  her  standard,  you 


THE  WEDDING  DAY  185 

may  be  sure.    Of  course,  she'll  be  different  in  a  year, 
you  know.    She'll  drop  her  people  and  all  that." 

''Quite  so,  quite  so,"  said  Mr.  Jess.  "And  get 
what  you  call  'tact' ." 

"Oh,  she's  dressed  herself  beautifully — or  Ninon's 
done  it  for  her.  She'll  pay  for  dressing.  I  call  it  a 
pretty  figure.  Charming.  And  she's  got  fine  eyes," 
Lady  Barbara  replied.  "That's  what  did  it,  no 
doubt.  Constantia  tells  me  that  Tristram  Du- 
plessis — ."    Mr.  Jess  grew  animated. 

"A  clever  young  fellow,  Duplessis.  I  have  had 
him  under  observation  lately.  My  secretary  is  leav- 
ing me,  and  there  has  been  talk — I  hear,  by  the  way, 
that  the  Cabinet  is  hopelessly  divided:  breaking 
up, — really,  you  know,  on  the  rocks." 

"So  poor  Lord  Quantock  was  telling  me  last 
night,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  Then  you  come  in,  it 
seems." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Jess  soothingly,  "we  shall 
see  what  we  shall  see." 

"No  doubt,"  said  Lady  Barbara,  bored  with  Mr. 
Jess. 

The  reception  was  rather  ghastly.  Lady  Barbara 
supposed  "we  ought  to  mingle,"  and  gallantly  tried 
it  upon  Mrs.  Middleham,  who  had  her  daughter 
Mary's  fine  eyes  crystallized,  as  it  were,  in  her  head, 
stiffened  into  glass  and  intensely  polished!  Mr. 
Germain,  seconding  his  friend's  effort  while  rigidly 
ignoring  that  an  effort  was  to  be  made,  performed  the 
introduction — "Ah — do  you  know  Lady  Barbara 
Rewish?     Mrs.    Middleham,"    and   departed,    not 


1 86  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

without  hearing  Mrs.  Middleham  say  that  she  did 
not  know  her  ladyship. 

"Such  a  pretty  wedding,"  said  Lady  Barbara; 
'^she  looked  delicious." 

Mrs.  Middleham,  who  was  not  without  character, 
said  that  Mary  was  a  very  good  girl.  She  had  her 
"back  up,"  as  her  daughter  Jinny  said,  and  neither 
gave  nor  took  any  odds.  Lady  Barbara  replied  that 
we  were  all  good  at  that  age — and  then  found  her- 
self stranded.  To  see  Jinny  with  Mr.  Gradeley, 
Q.C.,  had  been  a  cure  for  the  spleen.  She  ignored 
him,  till  he  perspired  in  her  service. 

Mary  was  cutting  the  cake  while  Mr.  Germain 
was  engaged  in  the  very  unpleasant  task  of  watching 
his  sister-in-law  "^^put  things  on  a  proper  footing" 
before  Mr.  Middleham.  He  could  tell  by  the  quiver- 
ing eyelids  of  the  poor  man  that  things  were  being 
put  there  with  vigour.  "No,  madam,  no,"  Mr.  Mid- 
dleham was  heard  to  say.  "I  don't  know  that  we 
could  fairly  expect  more  than  that." 

"Nor  do  I,"  said  Mrs.  James,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  adds,  "I  should  think  not." 

"Mr.  Germain  has  been  more  than  kind,"  he 
ventured  to  proceed;  "princely,  indeed — and  we 
should  not  presume ." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Mrs.  James,  and  was  echoed, 
somewhat  to  her  discomfiture,  by  Mrs.  Middleham, 
who  had  escaped  from  Lady  Barbara  by  the  simple 
means  of  walking  away. 

"I  think  that  Mrs.  Germain  may  take  for  granted 
that  nobody  from  our  house  will  intrude  where  he  is 


THE  WEDDING   DAY  187 

not  wanted,"  said  Mrs.  Middleham  with  dignity. 
'^Whenever  Mary  comes  to  see  us  she  will  be  welcome. 
That  she  knov/s.  We  shall  go  where  we  are  wel- 
come— and  nowhere  else." 

^^Then  we  quite  understand  each  other,  I  see," 
said  Mrs.  James. 

^'I  hope  we  do,"  said  the  other.  ^'It  shan't  be  my 
fault  if  we  do  not." 

Mr.  Germain  was  very  uncomfortable,  but  there 
was  now  none  too  much  time  for  the  train,  according 
to  his  calculations.  While  Mary  was  ^'changing  her 
hat" — as  it  was  put — the  wedding  party,  rigidly 
segregated,  stood  astare,  each  at  its  window,  upon 
the  gusty  vagaries  of  a  late  autumn  day. 

Mary  was  at  the  glass,  flushed  and  on  the  edge  of 
tears.  Her  hands  were  at  her  hat,  while  her  eyes 
searched  Jinny's  stony  pair  for  a  sign  of  melting. 
But  Jinny  was  immovable.  In  vain  did  the  pretty 
bride  turn  this  way  and  that,  invite  criticism,  invoke 
it:  Jinny's  disapproval  persisted.  This  was  not  to 
be  borne — with  a  little  whimper  the  victim  turned, 
clasped  Medusa  round  the  waist;  with  one  hand  to 
her  chin  she  coaxed  for  kindness.  She  stroked 
Jinny's  cheek,  tiptoed  for  a  kiss.  Presently  she 
fairly  sobbed  on  Jinny's  bosom. 

'^Oh,  you  are  unkind  to  me — you  hurt  me  dread- 
fully! What  have  I  done,  that  you  won't  love 
me?" 

"Done!"  cried  Jinny.  ''Hear  her!"  Then  with 
blazing  wrath  she  scorned  her  sister.  ''I'll  tell  you 
what  you've   done,   my  dear.     You've  married   a 


1 88  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

gravestone.  Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  John  Ger- 
main, Esquire — that's  what  you've  sold  yourself 
to — take  your  joy  of  that.  The  price  of  a  kissed 
hand!  You'll  find  out  before  morning,  my  beauty. 
If    I    marry    a    crossing-sweeper,    he    shall    be    a 


man." 


"You  liked  him,  you  know  you  liked  him- 


jj 


"Yes,  for  a  grandfather,  my  dear;  but  for  a  hus- 
band, if  3^ou  please,  I'll  have  a  man.  And  so  might 
you — over  and  over.  You've  been  as  good  as  prom- 
ised half-a-dozen  times ." 

"  Jinny,  you  know  that's  not  true."  She  was  ruth- 
lessly put  away  to  arm's  length. 

"But  it  is  true.  There  was  Rudd — what  do  you 
say  of  him?" 

Rudd  must  be  owned  to.  So  far  off  he  showed  so 
dim  a  speck  in  the  distance,  there  seemed  nothing 
in  it. 

"Young  Stainer — you  forget  him,  too,  I  sup- 
pose  . " 

"Stainer?"  said  poor  Mary.  "He  was  a  boy, 
Jinny." 

"He  had  a  pair  of  arms,  I  believe.  And  I  should 
like  to  hear  your  opinion  of  Fred  Wimple.  You 
were  never  at  Folkestone  in  your  life,  I  suppose? 
You  never  talked  to  Sandgate  by  moonlight  ?  Never 
met  any  one  in  your  life  by  moonlight?" 

The  remembrance  of  a  meeting  by  moonlight, 
more  recent  than  any  at  Folkestone,  enabled  Mary 
to  consider  Mr.  Wimple's  case. 

"I  don't  think  you  need  drag  up  flirtations  against 


THE  WEDDING  DAY  189 

me.  You're  not  very  generous,  Jinny.  Of  course 
I  flirted." 

^'Did  you  flirt  with  Mr.  Ambrose  Perivale?  Was 
that  what  made  him  follow  you  home  across  Eng- 
land? Did  you  flirt  with  Mr.  Dup — ."  But  now 
Mary  clung  to  her. 

^'Stop,  Jinny,  oh,  stop!  If  I've  been  wicked  I 
must  pay  for  it — it's  always  the  girl  that  pays.  But 
I  have  never  been  wicked — you  know  it,  oh,  you 
must  know  it  of  your  sister.  I've  told  him  every- 
thing, Jinny — all  that  he  would  hear.  But  he's 
too  good  to  believe  anything  against  me;  he'll  pro- 
tect me,  he'll  never  let  me  come  to  any  harm.  Oh, 
Jinny,  Jinny,  don't  be  cruel  to  me  any  more!  If 
ever  a  girl  meant  to  do  her  duty  in  life  I  mean  it 
now.  Dearest,  you  must  help  me — I'm  afraid  of 
him,  you  know." 

Jinny  folded  her  arms  tightly  over  her  chest. 
^'Yes,  I  can  believe  it — and  you  may  be  afraid  of 
your  husband  before  long — for  the  same  reason. 
You  go  out  of  your  own  walk — and  you  get  lost. 
Your  Tristram  Duplessis,  w^ho  looks  at  a  girl  as  if 
he  wanted  to  eat  her!  You  can't  be  expected  to 
understand  such  ways.  And  it's  my  belief  that  your 
John  Germain,  Esquire,  is  no  better — except  for  one 
thing,  that  he  hasn't  any  teeth.  If  you  ask  me,  I 
would  rather  be  eaten  any  day  by  Mr.  Duplessis. 
He'd  make  a  cleaner  job  of  it." 

Mary  was  not  crying.  On  the  contrary,  her  eyes 
were  hard.    She  was  pale  and  serious. 

*'I  know  that  I've  done  a  thing  which  you  don't 


IQO 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


approve.  You  think  that  I'm  going  to  leave  you  all 
for  good.  I  hope  that  I  shall  show  you  soon  that  you 
are  wrong.  Do  me  justice,  Jinny.  You  have  never 
seen  me  try  to  get  out  of  my  station.  I  shall  do 
whatever  Mr. — ,  my  husband,  wishes,  of  course — 
but  I  will  never  turn  my  back  on  my  people.  Nor 
would  he  ask  it  of  me — be  sure  of  that.  I  can't  say 
any  more — except  that  you  have  hurt  me  by  what 
you  have  said — and  that  five  minutes  after  I've  gone 
away,  you'll  be  sorry."  Then  she  choked  down 
something,  and  Jinny  was  sorry. 

''Molly,  I've  been  a  brute " 

''No,  no." 

"But  I  have.  I'm  proud  of  you,  really — you 
looked  quite  a  beauty  in  your  French  clothes " 

"  Jinny!    Beside  you  I'm  a  little  brown  mouse." 

"You're  not,  my  dear.  You're  as  sharp  as  any 
needle.  You'll  be  one  of  them  in  a  month,  and 
they'll  be  the  first  to  own  it.  I  could  see  that  old 
Lady  Rewish  look  you  over — and  nod  her  wicked  old 
head.  She  knows,  bless  you!  Little  Moll,  forgive 
your  tiresome  sister — kiss  me  now " 

"Darling  Jinny,  darling  Jinny " 

They  clung,  wept,  and  kissed;  and  presently  a 
radiant  bride  went  down  to  meet  her  lord. 

Good-byes  were  said  in  haste.  Jinny  promised 
there  should  be  no  rice.  A  momentary  flush  of  cor- 
diality warmed  the  unhappy  guests.  Lady  Barbara 
kissed  the  bride  on  both  cheeks;  Jinny  hovered 
about  her,  eager  now  to  show  her  contrition.  Won- 
der of  all,  Mr.   Germain,  saluted  her  fair  cheek. 


THE  WEDDING  DAY 


191 


Jinny  was  seen  to  blush.  Riceless,  slipperless  they 
went  their  way — and  the  party  dissolved  like 
smoke. 

It  was  afterwards  agreed  at  Blackheath  that  Mr. 
Germain  and  the  Rector  were  gentlemen. 


XVII 

THE  WEDDING  NIGHT 

Torquay  was  the  place  for  the  honeymoon;  but 
Exeter  was  to  be  the  end  of  that  day's  stage.  Mr. 
Germain's  valet  put  them  into  the  train,  handed  his 
master  the  tickets,  Mary  her  jewelcase,  took  off  his 
hat  and  retired  to  ah  adjoining  compartment. 
Everything  was  very  easy,  done  with  an  absence  of 
enthusiasm  which  might  have  chilled  a  more  resolute 
heart  than  this  bride's.  It  was  done,  she  reflected, 
as  if  a  wedding  was  a  matter  of  every  day.  Why,  a 
budget  of  evening  papers,  Punchy  Truth,  and  other 
things  had  been  laid  in  order  upon  the  opposite  seat. 
Was  he  going  to  read  all  these?  It  was  almost  in- 
credible— but  after  the  events  of  the  afternoon  she 
could  have  believed  anything.  She  felt  her  ring  to 
make  sure,  and  then  her  eye  caught  sight  of  the  paper 
on  the  window — Reserved  to  Exeter — J.  Germain, 
Esquire.  Perhaps  great  people  always  reserved  car- 
riages when  they  travelled — perhaps  a  carriage 
would  always  be  reserved  for  her  when  she  went 
about  alone.  There  would  have  been  a  maid  if  she 
had  chosen;  it  had  been  proposed  to  her.    She  had 

laughed  and  said,  ''Of  course  not!"    But  he  had 

192 


THE  WEDDING  NIGHT  193 

taken  his  man-servant — and  how  could  he  ?  On  his 
wedding  journey!  Had  he  taken  him  before — ? 
This  was  his  second  wedding,  she  remembered. 

Anxiety  as  to  whether  the  train  could  be  caught 
might  account  for  the  bridegroom's  silence  during 
the  carriage  journey.  His  watch  was  open  in  his 
hand.  For  some  time,  too,  after  the  train  moved, 
he  kept  silence.  She  found  herself  looking  soberly 
at  the  little  pointed  toe  of  her  shoe  when  her  thoughts 
were  broken  in  upon  by  the  capture  of  her  hand. 
The  sudden  attack  made  her  heart  beat ;  she  blushed 
hotly,  lost  her  command  of  experience.  As  if  it  had 
been  the  first  advance  he  had  ever  made,  she  dared 
not  raise  her  eyes.  She  must  be  wooed  from  the  be- 
ginning if  she  was  to  be  won. 

This  was  the  way  to  charm  him;  he  was  cnarmed. 
He  called  her  his  Mary,  and  asked,  of  what  she  was 
thinking?  She  didn't  know,  couldn't  say.  Was  she 
thinking  of  their  coming  life  together?  No,  not 
then.  ^^I  think  constantly  of  that,"  he  told  her  and 
put  his  arm  about  her.  She  let  him  draw  her  closer 
as  he  developed  his  plans  for  their  joint  happiness. 
^'Calm  spaces  for  work  together,  my  love — there  is 
so  much  in  which  your  help  will  be  a  pride  to  me — 
and  something  I  do  believe,  in  which  I  can  be  useful 
to  you.  We  must  keep  up  our  languages — French, 
Italian,  even  Spanish  (quite  worth  your  while  for 
Cervantes'  sake):  I  do  think  I  can  help  you  there. 
Then  your  music — I  could  not  bear  you  to  abandon 
that.  I  have  a  little  surprise  for  you  when  I  bring 
you   to   Southover — you   shall    see.     Then   riding. 


194 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


I  think  you  don't  ride  ?  You  shall  be  under  Musters's 
care.  Musters  is  an  admirable  fellow — you  will  like 
him.    We  ride  together  daily,  I  hope.    Will  you  like 

that?" 

''Yes,  yes,  I  shall  like  everything.  It  will  all  be 
very  wonderful  to  me — all  quite  new." 

He  smiled,  as  if  tolerant  of  a  simplicity  which 
could  find  daily  horse-exercise  wonderful — and  she 
felt  it.  In  her  present  state  of  acute  sensibility  she 
needed  anything  but  this  treatment.  He  should  have 
taken  her  as  an  adorable  dunce  and  laughed  at  her 
outright  between  his  kisses,  or  he  should  have 
whirled  her  off  her  balance  in  the  torrent  of  his 
ecstasy.  But  Mr.  Germain  never  laughed — it  was 
not  a  Germain's  habit — and  ecstasy  at  four  in  the 
afternoon  was  not  possible  to  him.  He  liked  his 
cup  of  tea  at  a  quarter  past,  and  when  that  hour  came 
proposed  to  Mary  that  she  should  give  it  him  from 
her  tea  basket — Lady  Barbara's  present. 

She  was  thankful  for  the  relief,  and  almost  herself 
again  in  the  bustle  of  preparation;  she  forgot  her 
dumps,  and  when  he  burnt  his  fingers  and  said 
"Tut-tut!"  she  fairly  laughed  at  him  and  took,  and 
even  returned,  his  kisses.  Things  were  better;  but 
he  very  nearly  imperilled  the  position  thus  hardly 
won,  by  wiping  his  mouth  with  a  silk  pocket  hand- 
kerchief. True,  she  had  been  eating  bread  and 
butter — but  was  this  a  time —  ? 

They  chatted  after  tea — first  of  Berkshire  where 
her  home  was  to  be.  He  spoke  of  his  "riverine 
property."     She  could  almost  see  the  edge  of  his 


THE   WEDDING  NIGHT  195 

estate  as  they  slipped  away  from  the  ragged  fringe 
of  Reading.  Then,  by  natural  stages,  he  was  led 
to  reflect  upon  the  society  she  would  meet  about 
Southover.  The  Chaveneys — he  thought  she  would 
like  the  Chaveneys;  they  were  her  nearest  neigh- 
bours, five  miles  off.  Sir  George  was  asthmatic — a 
sufferer;  but  Lady  Chaveney  was  a  charming 
woman,  a  woman  of  the  world.  She  had  been  a 
Scrope  of  Harfleet.  The  girls  wxre  quite  pleasant 
young  women;  and  there  was  a  son — rather  wild — 
an  anxiety  occasionally.  Then  there  were — but  her 
eyes  were  wide.  Five  miles  off!  Were  those  the 
nearest  people?  She  had  thought  there  was  a  town 
— was  not  Farlingbridge  the  post  town?  He  con- 
sidered Farlingbridge.  Yes,  Farlingbridge  was  a 
mile  and  a  half  from  the  Park  gates — a  market  town 
of  2,000  souls.  There  was  a  Vicar,  a  worthy  man, 
of  the  name  of  Burgess.  He  met  Burgess,  of  course 
— on  the  Board  of  Guardians,  for  instance.  There 
was  a  Colonel  Dermott,  too;  yes,  he  had  forgotten 
Dermott.  Nobody  else.  Her  "Oh,  I  see,'^  was  his 
reproof;  he  was  ashamed  of  himself.  ''Two  thou- 
sand other  people,  of  course!  Everybody  will  be 
delighted  to  see  you,  my  dearest.  Don't  misunder- 
stand me.  They  won't  call,  probably — Foolish  old 
customs  die  hard  with  us.  But  there  won't  be  a 
door  in  Farlingbridge  which  won't  be  open  to  you. 
I  shall  go  with  you,  if  you  will  allow  me.  I  have 
long  wished  to  know  more  of  my  neighbours — but 
you  know  how  sadly  I  have  lived."  He  drew  her 
closely  to  him — "How  I  have  lived  so  long  without 


196  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

my  Mary  passes  my  comprehension!  Do  you  re- 
member that  last  July  was  not  the  first  time  I  saw 
you?" 

She  was  pleased,  and  showed  that  she  was.  She 
questioned  him  shyly.  Had  he  seen  her  before  this 
year?  What  had  he  thought?  What  made  him 
notice  her  this  time  ?  His  answers  were  in  the  right 
vein.  He  was  allowed  to  be  the  lover — and  so  the 
moments  passed,  and  Swindon  with  them.  The 
train  swung  slowly  by  a  crowded  platform.  He 
released  her. 

Silence  succeeding,  she  relapsed  at  once  into  her 
desponding  mood.  She  was  embarked  indeed — but 
on  what  a  cruise!  The  Chaveneys — five  miles  away 
— Sir  George  and  Lady  Chaveney —  She  knew 
what  that  meant;  how  the  County  reckoned,  from 
one  great  house  to  another.  Why,  if  a  Colonel  Der- 
mott,  a  Reverend  Burgess  were  as  nothing — from 
what  a  depth  of  blackness  had  she  been  dragged  up! 
...  A  toy,  an  old  man's  plaything,  Jinny  had 
called  her  .  .  .  picked  out  of  a  village  and  put  in 
a  great  house  .  .  .  five  miles  from  anybody.  .  .  . 

During  this  time  of  long  silence,  of  reverie,  in  the 
which,  though  his  arm  embraced  her  and  his  hand 
was  against  her  side,  his  eyes  were  placidly  shut, 
while  hers  gazed  out  of  window,  fixed  and  sombre, 
at  the  flying  country,  she  suddenly  started  and  be- 
came alert.  Misgivings  faded,  a  wash  of  warm  col- 
our— as  of  setting  suns — stole  comfortably  about 
her.  For  a  moment,  it  may  be,  she  was  conscious 
again   of  wide   horizons.     The   train   was   rolling 


THE  WEDDING  NIGHT  197 

smoothly — so  smoothly  that  its  swiftness  had  to  be 
felt  for — over  an  open  common  backed  by  a  green 
down.  Furze-bushes  dotted  it,  clumps  of  bramble; 
there  was  a  pond,  a  dusty  road,  geese  on  the  pond, 
a  cottage  by  the  road,  with  a  woman  taking  linen 
from  the  hedge.  Along  the  road,  pushing  to  the 
West,  went  a  cart,  drawn  by  a  white  horse;  the 
driver  sat  on  the  tilt,  smoking,  his  elbows  on  his 
knees;  a  grey  dog  ran  diligently  beside.  Could  this 
be — ?  Could  it  be  other?  Oh,  the  great,  free  life! 
Oh,  the  beating  heart!  Oh,  the  long,  long  look! 
Mary  strained  against  the  arm  of  her  husband;  his 
hand  felt  her  heart  beat.  He  opened  his  eyes,  looked 
at  her,  and  smiled  to  see  her  eager  gazing.  But 
what  mystery  of  change  in  women!  The  next  mo- 
ment she  had  turned  to  him,  her  eyes  filled  with  wet. 
She  turned,  she  looked  wistfully  upon  him;  her  lip 
quivered.  "My  darling?" — and  then  she  flung 
herself  upon  his  breast.  "Oh,  take  me,  take  me, 
keep  me  safe!"  she  cried.  "I  will  be  good  to  you, 
I  will,  I  will!    But  you  must  love  me  always " 

"My  sweet  wife,  can  you  doubt  it?  What  has 
frightened  my  pet?"  She  hid  her  face  on  his  shoul- 
der. "Nothing — nothing — only  thoughts.  I'm  not 
good,  you  know.    I  told  you  so — often." 

He  pressed  her  closely  to  him.  "Who  is  good? 
Who  dares  to  ask  for  love  ?  We  ask  for  mercy — not 
love.  But  we  can  always  give  it.  It  is  our  blessed 
privilege.  You  have  the  whole  of  mine."  He  kissed 
her  hair — all  that  he  could  reach  of  her,  and  she  lay 
with  hidden  face  for  a  long  time.     The  unknown 


198  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

resumed  its  chilly  grip  — the  horizon  narrowed  again, 
the  fog  hung  about  the  hedgerows  which  hemmed  it 
in.  But  the  outlook  was  not  quite  the  same — or  the 
out-looker  was  changed.  The  tilt-cart  was  jour- 
neying to  the  West,  and  so  was  the  train.  .  .  .  But 
Mr.  Germain  exulted  in  every  mile  which  he  could 
watch  out  with  that  dear  head  upon  his  shoulder. 
The  tired  child  slept! 

^^ Exeter,  my  love!"  he  awoke  her  with  a  kiss;  she 
blushed,  looked  dazed,  and  snuggled  to  him  in  an 
adorable  way.  But  for  that  unlucky  servant  of  his 
it  is  possible  that  the  day  might  have  been  saved  yet. 
But  inexorable  order  resumed  its  hold,  and  she 
chilled  fatally  between  station  and  hotel.  A  carriage 
and  pair  was  waiting  for  them,  a  cockaded  coach- 
man touched  his  hat;  the  porters  touched  theirs; 
the  luggage  followed  with  Villiers;  up  the  stairs  of 
the  hotel  there  was  quite  a  stately  procession.  .  .  . 
They  were  shown  their  rooms;  sitting-room,  din- 
ing-room, two  bed-rooms,  all  en  suite.  Mr.  Ger- 
main disappeared  with  anxious  Villiers;  a  gigantic 
chambermaid,  old,  stately,  with  a  bosom  fit  for 
triplets,  superintended  the  unpacking  of  Madam's 
trunk,  which  was  plundered  by  two  smart  under- 
lings with  velvet  bows  very  far  back  upon  their 
sleek  heads.  Would  Madam  require  a  dresser? 
Madam  said,  Oh,  no,  thank  you — and  then  had  to 
ring  in  confusion  for  somebody  to  fasten  her  bodice. 
Madam  looked  charming,  when  all  was  done,  in  a 
gown  of  dangerous  simplicity,  and  Madam  knew  it 
— but  there  beat  a  wild  little  heart  under  the  tulle, 


THE  WEDDING  NIGHT  199 

and  a  cry  had  to  be  stifled,  a  cry  to  a  friend  on  the 
open  road — for  good  fellowship,  sage  counsel,  and 
trust  to  float  between  eyes  and  eyes.  Her  treadings 
had  wellnigh  slipped;  she  felt  herself  to  be  drown- 
ing— as  it  were,  in  three  feet  of  water. 

She  sat  at  his  table,  and  ravished  his  delicate 
fancies  with  her  pretty  embarrassments,  her  assumed 
dignity,  her  guarded  eyes  and  lips.  King  Cophetua 
lived  again  in  this  honest  man,  who  had  no  need  to 
protest  to  Heaven  that  he  would  cherish  his  elected 
bride.  He  was  now  perfectly  happy,  wallowing  in 
sentiment,  bathing  every  sense.  The  exquisite  anti- 
thesis he  had  made!  From  nothing  she  was  become 
this!  Sweet  before,  and  now  all  dainty  sweet;  rare 
unknown,  now  known  to  be  the  rarest.  Her  white 
neck  with  a  jewel  upon  it,  her  scented  hair  with  a 
star,  rings  glittering  on  her  fingers,  her  gown  as 
dainty  as  her  untried  soul — and  through  the  clouded 
windows  of  her  eyes  that  shrinking  soul  looking  out 
— wistful,  appealing,  crying  for  help.  Ah,  what 
loyal  help  should  be  hers!  Complacent,  benevolent 
gentleman. 

She  sipped  his  champagne,  she  watched  every- 
thing, missed  nothing,  gave  no  chances,  knew  her- 
self on  her  trial.  She  was  strung  up  to  the  last  pitch, 
and  staked  all  her  future  upon  the  hazard  of  this 
night.  If  she  was  cold  in  her  responses,  slow  to  take 
up,  quick  to  abandon  positions  in  the  talk,  she  may 
be  excused.  She  could  be  bright  enough  when  she 
was  at  ease — but  who  is  at  ease  with  his  honour  at 
proof  ?    Great  honour  had  been  done  her,  she  knew ; 


200  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

and  it  required  all  her  honour  in  return.  That 
prompted  her  to  a  curious  requital.  She  burned  to 
cry  out  to  this  courteous  gentleman  in  black  and  fair 
white,  and  to  these  noiseless,  prompt  attendants — 
^^Look  at  me  well — I  am  nothing,  a  shred  from  the 
wilderness.  He  has  chosen  me  for  his  breast, 
decked  me  out — I  am  a  slave-girl — my  ignorance  is 
hired.  How  dare  you  wait  upon  me,  you  who  would 
pass  me  in  the  street,  and  nudge,  and  tell  each  other 
with  a  wink  what  I  was,  and  how  you  found  my 
looks?  Was  I  so  low  that  I  must  be  thus  lower? 
Can  you  not  spare  me  this?"  She  burned  with 
shame,  was  dangerously  near  to  panic.  More  than 
once  she  must  bite  her  lip  to  hold  back  these  w^ords — 
and  as  she  bit,  he  looked  at  her  and  adored  her  splen- 
did colour  and  lovely  frugality  of  glance  and  speech. 
.  .  .  She  left  him  to  his  port,  and  sat  alone  in  the 
drawing-room,  a  prey  to  all  the  misgivings. 

When  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  struggled  with 
himself  to  tell  her  all  he  had  found  in  her  of  excel- 
lence and  beauty,  she  could  only  hide  her  face.  But 
she  clung  to  him  at  last,  sobbing  out  her  protest  that 
she  would  serve  him  utterly.  ^^Oh,  you  are  good  to 
me,  you  are  good!  Oh,  help  me  to  be  what  you 
wish.  I  am  so  ignorant — I  cannot  tell  you — "  She 
broke  off  here,  and,  holding  herself  stiffly  in  his 
arms,  looked  strangely  in  his  face.  "Do  you  know 
— have  you  thought— that— that— I  cannot  be  what 
you  think  me?"  she  said;  and  when  she  saw  that 
he  was  taken  aback,  ''Listen,"  she  said,  ''let  me  sit 
by  you."     He  took  her  on  his  knee  and  held  her 


THE   WEDDING  NIGHT  201 

swinging  hand.  Her  eyes  were  veiled  as  she  tried 
to  speak  to  him.  "I  have  been — I  began  to  work, 
you  know,  when  I  was  sixteen.  I  went  away  from 
home " 

She  caught  him  unawares,  or  she  hit  by  som.e 
fatal  telepathy  the  centre  of  his  thought.  He  flinched 
at  the  blow,  but  she  could  not  know  that,  being  too 
full  of  her  own  affair.  She  must  discharge  her  heart 
at  all  costs — and  at  this  eleventh  hour,  if  so  must  be. 
Now  let  him  be  generous  if  he  is  to  be  accounted 
wise! 

Once  too  often  he  was  tried.  This  time,  at  the 
crisis,  he  did  not  respond.  Generosity,  which  is 
Love's  flag  of  victory,  was  not  at  command.  The 
hand  that  shaded  his  eyes  made  a  deeper  shadow. 
His  voice  was  small  and  still.    ^' Yes,  my  dear,  yes?'' 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  up,  not  at  him,  but 
over  the  room.  She  went  on  as  if  she  was  reading 
her  story  off  the  wall.  But  she  was  reading  it  from 
Jinny's  eyes  of  scorn. 

**You  must  know  me  as  I  really  am  before  you — 
before  to-morrow.  I  was  engaged — once — before  I 
knew  you.  He  was  a  farmer's  son — Mr.  Rudd. 
He  thought — I  thought — he  gave  me  a  ring.  That 
was  soon  after  I  had  gone  to  Misperton.  I  was 
twenty- two." 

He  sat  very  still,  hiding  his  face.  It  looked  as  if 
he  were  crouching  from  a  storm.  ''Yes,  yes,  my 
child.    Why  not?"    She  was  pitiless. 

''Oh,  but —  ...  I  have  more  to  tell  you." 

He  seemed  to  shrivel.     "You  wish  to  speak  of 


202  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

these  things?    You  were  very  young."    And  yet  his 
voice  said,  Tell  me  all — all. 

"At  sixteen ?    Yes.    Of  course  I  was  very  foolish." 

"There  had  been —  Before  you  went  to  Mr. 
Nunn's — before  you  went  to  Misperton?" 

She  left  his  knee,  and  sat  opposite  to  him  upon  a 
straight  chair.  She  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  and 
began  her  tale.  As  if  she  had  been  in  the  dock  she 
rehearsed  her  poor  tale.  He  neither  stirred  nor 
spoke. 

She  made  no  excuses,  did  not  justify  herself,  nor 
accuse  herself.  She  did  not  say — it  never  entered 
her  head  to  say — You,  too,  have  made  mistakes. 
There  was  a  Lady  Diana  for  your  bitterness.  But 
she  knew  what  she  was  doing  only  too  well;  and  a 
force  within  her  said,  "Go  on — spare  nothing — go 
on.  Whatever  it  cost  you,  be  done  with  it.  No 
peace  for  you  else."  ...  "I  must  tell  you  that 
there  was  a  gentleman — you  will  not  ask  me  his 
name.  I  think  that  you  know  it.  He  gave  me  a 
book — and — other  things.  I  have  not  seen  him 
since — since  you  spoke  to  me  at  the  school-feast." 

He  stirred,  but  did  not  look  up.  "I  will  ask  you 
not  to  see  him." 

"I  will  never  see  him.    I  have  refused " 

"He  has  tried  to  see  you?" 

"I  took  care  that  he  should  not." 

"I  don't  wish  to  seem  unreasonable,"  he  said 
slowly;  "I  cannot  bear  to  seem  so  to  you.  But — it 
would  be  for  our  happiness." 

"I  assure  you  that  I  have  no  intention.    I  hope 


THE  WEDDING  NIGHT  203 

you  will  believe  me."  His  lips  moved,  but  he  did 
not  look  up.  She  rose.  '^I  am  very  tired,"  she  said; 
*'I  think  I  will  go  now."  He  got  up  immediately; 
the  fog  seemed  in  the  room.  She  came  and  stood 
before  him. 

''Be  patient  with  me,"  she  said.  ''Be  kind  to  me. 
I  shall  try  to  do  everything  you  wish." 

He  made  as  if  he  would  take  her,  but  she  drew 
back  quickly. 

"I  should  have  told  you  all  this  before  if  I  could 
have  thought  you  would  care — would  allow  it.  In- 
deed, I  have  tried  more  than  once,  but  you —  Now, 
I  am  glad  that  you  know  me — but  I  am  very  tired." 

"Mary,"  he  said,  and  held  out  his  hands  to  her. 
She  looked  into  his  face,  then  shut  her  eyes. 

"  I  am  very  tired.    Please  let  me  go.    Good-night." 

He  held  open  the  door  for  her. 


BOOK  II 


IN  WHICH  WE  PAY  A  FIRST  VISIT  TO  SOUTHOVER 

The  house — Southover  House,  Farlingbridge, 
Berks— stands  terraced  above  formal  gardens  in  the 
Italian  taste;  ribbony  borders,  edged  with  white 
stone,  form  a  maze  of  pattern.  Urns  on  pedestals,, 
statues  of  nymphs  and  fauns,  stone  seats,  stone  cis- 
terns, gleam  among  the  carpeted  flowers.  Beyond 
these  is  the  great  park,  with  a  wall  (they  tell  me)  six 
miles  round.  The  herd  of  fallow  deer  is  praised  by 
Cotton  in  his  famous  book.  Mr.  Germain  used  to 
show  you  the  passage. 

The  mansion,  built  by  Wyatt,  is  classical;  an 
exact  rectangle  of  pink  brick  faced  with  Bath  stone. 
It  has  a  pediment  and  a  balustrade,  with  white  stat- 
ues at  intervals  along  the  garden  front.  Within,  it 
is  extremely  proper,  having  narthex  and  atrium,  or, 
if  you  please,  vestibule  and  hall.  The  reception 
rooms  open  out  of  this  last,  and  above  it  a  gallery 
gives  on  to  the  chambers,  about  whose  doors  the 
valets  are  to  be  seen  collected  at  seven-thirty  or  so  of 
an  evening.  They  wait  for  their  masters,  while  they 
observe  and  comment  in  monosyllabic  undertones 

upon  the  doings  of  their  betters  below.     Surprising 

207 


2o8  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

how  much  a  man-servant  can  get  into  how  httle. 
From  April  to  June,  from  September  to  November, 
the  hall  is  used  for  tea  and  after-dinner  lounging.  It 
is  the  core  and  heart  of  the  house.  During  the  sum- 
mer months  tea  should  be  on  the  terrace  unless  Nat- 
ure is  willing  to  see  Mr.  Germain  vexed ;  in  winter- 
time it  is  always  in  the  little  library  where  the 
Murillo  hangs. 

I  choose  the  time  of  tulips  for  our  visit,  when 
Southover  has  had  a  new  mistress  for  two  years 
come  the  fall  of  the  leaf.  The  family,  as  they  say 
down  here,  has  been  abroad  this  year;  has  not  long 
returned.  It  went  to  the  Riviera  directly  after  Christ- 
mas, to  Men  tone;  was  in  Rome  in  February,  and 
studying  churches  in  the  Rhone  valley  in  March. 
It  Eastered  in  Seville,  going  thither  by  Barcelona 
and  Granada,  and  came  home  by  Madrid  and  Paris. 
Now  it  is  mid-May,  and  the  Italian  gardens  glitter 
with  tulips.  Tea  is  served,  according  to  custom,  in 
the  hall  at  a  quarter  before  five.  The  footman  on 
duty — his  service  passed  by  the  butler — has  retired, 
but  the  statelier  functionary  stands  at  his  post,  tap- 
ping his  teeth  with  a  corkscrew.  The  hour  is  now 
five — gone  five.  Silver  chimes  have  proclaimed  it  to 
an  empty  hall.  There  he  stands,  a  solemn,  florid 
personage,  full  of  cares,  regarding  in  an  abstracted 
manner  the  glittering  array  of  covered  dishes,  cups,  and 
covered  jugs.  Now  and  again  he  adjusts  a  teaspoon, 
now  and  again  humours  a  spirit-flame.  At  a  quarter 
past  five  Mr.  Germain  enters  the  hall  from  the  library, 
his  secretary,  young  Mr.  Wilbraham,  at  his  heels. 


A  FIRST  VISIT  TO   SOUTHOVER  209 

The  butler,  with  a  careful  hand,  placed  a  rack 
containing  three  triangles  of  toast  upon  a  little  table. 
He  poured  a  cup  of  chocolate  from  a  porcelain  jug, 
and  added  that  to  the  feast.  The  afternoon's  post, 
upon  a  salver,  was  held  for  Mr.  Wilbraham.  These 
things  done,  he  waited  until  Mr.  Germain  was  in  his 
deep-seated  chair.  ^^The  ladies  are  not  returned, 
Sir,"  he  said,  and  went  his  noiseless  way. 

Mr.  Germain,  who  looked  white  and  had  faded 
eyes,  munched  his  toast  in  silence.  Young  Mr.  Wil- 
braham, quick,  gentlemanly,  pleasantly  alert,  de- 
molished envelopes  and  their  contents  while  he  ate 
mufhn.    Three  or  four  letters  he  handed  to  his  patron. 

^' Those  look  to  me  personal,"  he  said.  Mr. 
Germain,  having  adjusted  his  pince-nez,  inspected 
the  envelopes  and  put  them  unopened  into  his  pocket. 
Toast-munching  was  resumed,  and  silence.  Once 
or  twice  Mr.  Germain  looked  at  his  ,/atch,  once 
compared  it  with  the  hall-clock,  but  made  no  other 
sign.^ 

Wilbraham  poured  more  tea,  spread  himself 
honeycomb  on  bread  and  butter,  and  went  on  with 
his  letters.  He  broke  the  silence.  ^'The  Association 
has  written  again  to  know  whether  you  have  decided. 
They  hope  you  will  come  forward.  Sir  Gregory  has 
gone  to  Madeira.  They  say,  he's  quite  made  up  his 
mind." 

Mr.  Germain  blinked  solemnly  at  space,  without 
reply. 

''And  I've  a  note  here  from  Mr.  Jess — rather, 
from  his  secretary.     There  was  a  meeting  at  the 


2IO  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

Reform  on  Monday.  Your  name  was  mentioned. 
Mr.  Jess  hopes  that  he  hasn't  been  indiscreet.  He 
referred  to  the  possibility." 

Mr.  Germain,  without  turning  his  head  or  ceasing 
to  munch,  asked  here,  Who  was  Mr.  Jess's  private 
secretary. 

"Duplessis,"  said  brisk  Mr.  Wilbraham,  adding, 
as  if  to  himself, 

'^Clever  beggar."  After  a  pause  Mr.  Germain 
got  up. 

*^I  shall  rest  for  a  little,  Wilbraham.  We  will 
consider  these  things  before  dinner.  Meantime  I 
will  ask  you  to  remember  that  they  are  between  you 
and  me.    Strictly  so." 

^^Oh,  of  course!  Quite  understood,"  the  friendly 
young  man  nodded. 

The  master  of  the  house  had  his  hand  on  the 
library  do(  ■  when  a  step  on  the  flags  of  the  vestibule 
caused  him  to  look  quickly  round.  There  was  a 
moment  during  which  he  could  have  been  observed 
to  hold  his  breath  in  suspense.  A  tall  and  sumptu- 
ously fair  lady,  free-moving,  deep-bosomed,  robed 
in  white — all  her  dresses  robed  her — came  into  the 
hall.  She  wore  a  broad-brimmed  Tuscan  hat,  which 
set  about  her  like  a  halo,  and  carried  flowers.  This 
was  the  Honourable  Hertha  de  Speyne,  the  last  of 
the  Cantacutes. 

Mr.  Germain  turned  away  from  his  refuge  and 
stood  attentive;  Wilbraham  jumped  to  the  upright. 

"Shall  I  have  in  some  more  tea?"  he  asked  at 
large.    ''This  has  been  here  since  five." 


A  FIRST  VISIT  TO   SOUTHOVER  211 

^^Not  for  me,"  said  Miss  de  Speyne.  "I  hate  it. 
But  the  others  are  coming.  I  saw  them  in  the  bot- 
tom.   They've  been  on  the  lake,  I  think." 

^'And  you?"  This  was  from  Mr.  Germain,  with 
a  courtly  inclination. 

"Oh,  I've  been  paintmg,  of  course." 

"Happily,  I  hope." 

"Miserably.  Deplorably.  I've  scraped  out  every- 
thing, and  come  away  at  least  with  a  clean  canvas. 
Few  painter's  can  say  as  much  of  a  day's  work." 

"Few  would  confess  it." 

"Ah,  I've  been  taught  the  blessing  of  an  un- 
charged heart.  Mr.  Senhouse  taught  me  that  last 
year.  What  I  was  trying  to  do  was  perfectly  im- 
possible. One  knows  too  much;  one  has  botany, 
flower-shows,  catalogues  behind  one.  Fields  of  as- 
phodel! But  suppose  you  had  been  shown  how 
asphodel  grows?" 

"Have  I  fields  of  asphodel  here?"  Mr.  Germain 
looked  his  polite  misgivings. 

"You  have  a  glade  of  Poets'  narcissus — like  a 
Swiss  valley.  Mr.  Senhouse  could  have  done  it — an 
Impressionist.  It's  not  for  me.  I  see  them  stiff  in 
vases;  I  know  that  they  have  stalks." 

"So,  surely,  does  Mr.  Senhouse." 

"Indeed  he  does.  He  knows  that  they  have  souls. 
But  he's  ruthless  with  his  brushes ;  he-  forgets  their 
souls,  and  his  own  science." 

"And  you ?" 

"I'm  so  proud  of  mine  that  I  could  never  forget 
it."    She  looked  out  into  the  vestibule,  to  the  sunlight 


212  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

beyond.  ''Here  comes  Mary.  Do  get  some  tea  for 
them,"  she  urged  Wilbraham — who  flew  to  the  bell. 

Mr.  Germain  remained  where  he  was — long 
enough  to  see  his  wife's  eyes  dilate  at  the  sight  of 
him  there,  long  enough  to  hear  the  laugh  falter  upon 
her  lips;  and  then  he  turned  and  slowly  gained  the 
library.  He  shut  the  door  behind  him.  Mrs.  Ger- 
main, with  a  high  colour  and  gleam  of  light  in  her 
fine  eyes,  came  quickly  to  the  tea-table.  She  was 
followed  by  two  young  men  in  flannels — self-pos- 
sessed, assured,  curt-spoken  young  men  with  very 
smooth  heads. 

''Oh,  we're  dreadfully  late!"  she  cried.  "Hertha, 
have  you  been  in  long?  Have  you  had  everything?" 
In  a  much  lower  key  she  asked,  "Has — was — he 
here  when  3^ou ?" 

Miss  de  Speyne  looked  kindly  at  her  friend. 
"He  was  just  going  when  I  came  in;  but  he  stayed 
and  entertained  me.  It  was  awfully  kind  of  him. 
I  know  he's  very  tired." 

Mary  stood  by  the  tea-table,  fidgeting  a  cup  by 
the  handle.  She  looked  uncomfortable.  "I'm 
frightfully  sorry.  Hertha,  I  meant  to  be  in  by  a 
quarter  to  five." 

"It's  all  right,  you  know,"  said  one  of  the  young 
men — the  youngest  of  them — lengthily  at  ease  in  a 
chair.  "You're  only  an  hour  slow.  I  call  that 
good." 

She  made  no  answer,  but  went  on  fidgeting  the 
teacup.  The  entry  of  butler  and  footman  with  sup- 
plies did  not  move  her. 


A  FIRST  VISIT  TO   SOUTHOVER  213 

Young  Lord  Gunner  stood  to  his  muffin,  and 
confidently  explained : 

''It's  my  fault,  you  must  know.  I  was  diving 
after  half-crowns — and  getting  'em,  too." 

''He  was  though,"  said  Mr.  Chaveney  from  his 
chair.  "I  ought  to  know.  They  were  my  half- 
crowns." 

"Well  then,  of  course,  I  had  to  change.  I'm  not 
a  mermaid,  as  it  happens." 

"Not  yet,  my  boy,"  said  the  loser  of  half-crowns. 

"  So  I  sent  a  chap  up  for  my  chap  with  some  things, 
and  changed  in  the  chalet.  That's  why  we're  late, 
if  you  must  know." 

Miss  de  Speyne  was  pouring  out  tea.  "I  see. 
And  the  others  reckoned  up  their  losses " 

"Words  to  that  effect,"  said  Mr.  Chaveney. 

Lord  Gunner  put  down  his  cup.  "Don't  know 
what  they  did.  But  I've  brought  them  safe  to  port. 
Wilbraham,  I'll  play  you  squash  rackets  before 
dinner.  It'll  do  you  good.  You're  overdoing  it, 
you  know,  and  you're  not  used  to  it.  You'll  get 
a  hemorrhage  or  a  nervous  breakdown,  and  we 
shall  have  to  give  you  a  rest-cure.  Chaveney  shall 
score." 

"Can't,"  said  Mr.  Chaveney.  "Ordered  my  trap. 
My  people  are  going  to  take  me  out  to  dinner.  They 
won't  be  denied." 

"England  hath  need  of  him,"  said  Wilbraham. 
"Come  along.  Gunner.  My  things  are  in  the  court. 
I'm  due  at  the  desk  at  seven." 

Mr,  Chaveney — very  young,  very  fair,  and  very 


214  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

flushed,  with  long  and  light  eyelashes — was  now  at 
the  piano.    He  swayed  as  he  played. 

"Do  you  hke  that?"  he  said,  looking  at  Mrs. 
Germain,  who  was  still  pensive.    *^It's  'Carmen."^ 

"Beg  pardon,"  said  Lord  Gunner.  "It  sounded 
like  Chaveney."    The  youth  ran  up  a  scale. 

"Go  and  play  rackets,  Gunner,  and  leave  me  to 
my  art.    I'm  going." 

"He'll  stay  to  dine — you  see  if  he  don't,"  was 
Lord  Gunner's  passing  shot.  He  was  answered  by 
a  crashing  chord. 

Miss  de  Speyne,  regarding  the  pianist's  back,  said 
in  a  gentle  voice,  "He's  in  the  hbrary.  You'd  better 
go  to  him  for  a  minute." 

Mrs.  Germain  had  the  knack  of  making  her  eyes 
wide  and  round  so  that  you  got  the  full-orbed  splen- 
dour of  their  brown  light.  "I  expect  he's  asleep.  I'll 
see  him  before  dinner."     Her  friend  shook  her  head. 

"He's  walking  up  and  down.  He'll  rest  after  you 
have  been." 

"Do  you  think  so — really?" 

"I'm  sure.  You  had  better  go."  Mrs.  Germain 
stayed  no  longer,  but  went  quickly,  holding  her  head 
stifiF. 

She  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  library,  inside  the 
closed  door,  a  charming  figure  for  all  her  anxious 
eyes.  She  was  in  blue  linen,  with  a  wide  straw  hat; 
was  sunburnt  and  fresh,  looked  ridiculously  young. 
Mr.  Germain  paused  in  his  pacing  of  the  long  carpet 
and  waited  for  her  to  speak — which  presently  she 
did,  rather  breathlessly. 


A  FIRST  VISIT  TO   SOUTHOVER  215 

'^Oh/^  she  said,  ''I  was  afraid  you  might  be  rest- 


ing, or  I  should  have  come " 

He  shut  his  eyes  for  a  moment.  *'No.  It  is  not 
possible  just  now, — nor  desirable.  I  have  much  to 
think  of.'' 

She  went  quickly  to  him  and  held  out  her  hand 
a  little  way.  "Aren't  you  well?  May  I  stay  with 
you?    I  meant  to  have  been  in  early,  but " 

"But  it  was  not  convenient,  you  would  say?" 

"No,  not  that.  I  couldn't  get  them  to  leave  the 
water.  They  were  absurd — like  children.  One  was 
throwing  money  in  for  the  other  to  dive  after.  I  did 
try — but  they  went  on  just  the  same.  Did  you  ex- 
pect— did  you  want  me  ?  I  promise  you  that  I  tried 
to  come.    I  tried  hard." 

Something  of  the  sort  had  been  what  his  self- 
esteem  exacted  of  her ;  something  of  the  sort  must 
have  been  tendered  him  or  he  had  been  really  ill. 
He  was  now  softened,  he  smiled,  took  up  her  offered 
hand.  "My  little  love,"  he  said,  drew  her  near  and 
kissed  her  forehead.  For  a  moment  she  urged 
towards  him,  but  then,  having  glanced  timidly  up 
and  seen  his  averted  eyes,  she  sighed  and  looked  to 
the  floor,  her  hand  still  held. 

He  led  her  to  his  escritoire,  put  a  chair  for  her 
beside  it,  and  sat  in  his  own.  "Constantia  writes  to 
me,  Mary,  that  she  and  James  would  like  us  to 
pay  them  a  visit — in  July,  as  usual.  What  do  you 
say?" 

She  considered  this  for  some  moments.  Her  head 
was  bent  towards  her  hands  in  her  lap;  she  looked 


2i6  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

at  her  weaving  fingers — a  habit  of  hers.  "That 
would  be  to  the  Rectory,  I  suppose?" 

"Obviously,"  said  Mr.  Germain.  "You  will  re- 
member that  it  was  a  yearly  custom  of  mine."  She 
had  every  reason  to  remember  it;  but  he  must  hear 
her  say  so.  "  You  will  not  have  forgotten  that,  Mary  ?  " 

"No!  Oh,  no!  Of  course  I  haven't."  She  looked 
at  him  for  a  moment — trouble  in  her  eyes  and  flame 
in  her  cheeks. 

"Last  year,"  he  resumed,  "I  had  Southover  to 
show  you — and  there  were  reasons  why  I  should  not 
take  you  back  so  soon.  This  year  there  could  be  no 
such  reason.  I  think  that  you  might  be  pleased  to 
see  Misperton  again;  more  particularly  since  you 
and  Hertha  de  Speyne  have  struck  up  such  a  happy 
friendship.  She  is  a  noble  young  creature  in  every 
way;  nothing  could  have  pleased  me  more.  Con- 
stantia  will,  of  course,  write  to  you;  but,  being  my 
sister-in-law  and  happening  to  have  other  matters  of 
which  to  speak,  she  mentioned  it  to  me  in  the  first 
event.  I  can  assure  you  that  there  has  been  no  want 
of  respect " 

She  flashed  him  another  reproachful  look — re- 
proachful, not  that  he  should  think  her  offended, 
but  that  he  should  pretend  to  think  her  so.  "Oh, 
of  course  not!  How  could  you  imagine  such  a 
thing?    It  is  absurd — really  absurd." 

He  made  no  reply,  was  evidently  waiting  for  her 
decision.  She  gave  it  reluctantly.  "We  will  go,  if 
you  wish  it,"  she  said. 

He  was  immediately  piqued.     "That  is  hardly 


A  FIRST  VISIT  TO   SOUTHOVER  217 

cordial,  is  it?  I  am  not  sure  that  I  should,  or  could, 
wish  it,  on  those  terms." 

She  had  reasons  of  her  own  for  disliking  it  ex- 
tremely; but  she  kept  her  counsels  in  these  days. 
*'I  will  tell  you  exactly  how  I  feel,  if  you  will  be  pa- 
tient with  me,"  she  said.  ^'I  am  sure  that  the  Rector 
would  be  glad  to  have  me  there  with  you;  and  of 
course  Hertha  would  like  it.  If  there  was  nobody 
else  I  should  love  to  go.  I  shall  remember  Misperton 
as  long  as  I  live.  Wonderful  things  happened  to  me 
there;  don't  think  that  I  can  forget  them  for  an  hour. 
But  Mrs.  James — Constantia,  I  mean — doesn't  like 
me  at  all.  Why  should  we  disguise  it?  She  disap- 
proves of  me,  doesn't  trust  me,  thinks  me  a  nobody 
— ^which  I  am,  of  course " 

^^I  beg  your  pardon,  my  love — "  he  would  have 
stopped  her;  but  she  saw  what  in  particular  had 
offended  him,  and  ran  on. 

*^I  am  your  wife,  I  know.  But  I  am  a  person,  too; 
and  I  own  that  I  would  rather  be  with  people  who — 
who  respect  me  for  what  I  am  in  myself,  as  well  as 
for  what  you  have  made  me.  Forgive  me  for  saying 
so;  it  is  rather  natural,  I  think.  And  it  happens  that 
I  should  like  to  see  my  parents  again,  and  my  sisters. 
It  is  six  months  since  I  was  at  Blackheath.  So  that 
would  be  an  opportunity,  and  a  reason — while  you 
were  at  the  Rectory." 

''You  wish  me  to  go  there  alone?"  She  could 
guess  at  the  scalding  spot  beneath  his  armour-plate. 

''I  should  love  to  go  with  you,"  she  said,  ''if — if  it 
could  be  managed." 


2i8  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

^^I  may  mention  to  you,"  he  said  coldly,  ''that  you 
will  not  find  an  old  acquaintance  there.  Since  his 
mother's  death  my  young  relative,  Tristram  Duplessis, 
has  bestirred  himself.    He  has  sold  the  cottage." 

She  had  not  been  prepared  for  an  attack  in  flank, 
and  blenched  before  it.  Then  she  told  her  fib. 
*'My  reason  against  going  with  you  had  nothing  to 
do  with  Mr.  Duplessis,"  she  said;  and,  watching 
her,  he  did  not  believe  her. 

He  turned  to  his  papers.  ''It  shall  be  as  you  wish, 
my  love,"  he  said.  "I  will  write  to  Constantia.  It 
may  well  be  that  I  shall  not  care  to  resume  a  broken 
habit.  Are  you  going  up  to  dress  ?  If  so,  and  if  you 
should  happen  to  see  Wilbraham,  would  you  tell  him 
that  I  am  ready?" 

She  hovered  about  his  studious  back,  as  if  on  the 
brink  of  speech;  but  thought  better  of  it  and  went 
slowly  out  of  the  room.  Intensely  conscious  of  her 
going,  he  cowered  at  his  desk,  looking  sideways — 
until  he  heard  the  door  close.  Then  he  began  to 
read,  with  lips  pressed  close  together. 

In  the  hall  Mrs.  Germain  almost  ran  into  the 
arms  of  Wilbraham,  who,  scarlet  in  the  face  and  wet 
as  with  rain,  was  racing  to  his  room. 

"By  jove,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Germain!" 

"You  only  made  me  jump,"  she  laughed.  "Have 
you  been  playing  all  this  time?" 

"I  know,  I  know!  It  was  Gunner's  fault,  upon 
my  honour." 

"It  always  is  Lord  Gunner's  fault.  Mr.  Germain 
asked  me  to  tell  you  that  he  was  ready." 


A  FIRST  VISIT  TO   SOUTHOVER  219 

''Good  Lord!"  cried  the  unhappy  youth.  "And 
I'm  sw — as  hot  as  anything." 

''Go  and  change/'  she  said  kindly.  "I'll  go  back 
to  him." 

He  was  fervent.  "You  are  an  angel!  But  I've 
told  you  that  before."  Their  eyes  met;  they  laughed 
together.    He  pelted  upstairs. 

"Mr.  Wilbraham  will  be  with  you  in  a  second," 
she  said,  entering  the  library  again.  Had  she  seen 
him  spring  round  as  she  came  in?  No  doubt  of  it. 
"I  left  my  book  down  by  the  lake — and  I  know  you 
don't  like  that.    Do  you  ?  " 

"No,  dearest,  no.  I  confess  the  foible."  His  eyes 
invited  her  nearer.  She  advanced  to  his  table  and 
stood  by  him,  her  hand  touched  his  shoulder.  He 
was  inordinately  happy,  though  he  made  no  imme- 
diate sign.  But  presently  his  arm  went  about  her 
waist,  and  then  she  bent  down  and  leaned  her  cheek 
for  his  kiss.  They  remained  together,  saying  noth- 
ing, until  she  heard  Wilbraham  coming  down,  three 
stairs  at  a  time.  Then  she  slipped  away  and  just 
caught  him  outside  the  door. 

"I  had  to  tell  a  fib,"  she  told  him.  "I  said  that  I 
had  left  my  book  by  the  lake." 

"Well!"  He  looked  at  her.  "I'll  bet  that's  not 
a  fib." 

"No,"  she  laughed.  "But  it  was  meant  to  be. 
Now  I'm  going  to  get  it  myself." 

"You  are  an  angel!"  he  said.  "Don't.  I'll  go 
presently.    I  should  love  to." 

"No.    I  shall  go  myself.    I  deserve  it." 


220  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"You  deserve — !"  He  stopped  himself.  "Look 
here/'  he  said,  "send  Gunner.  No,  he's  changing. 
Send  young  Chaveney." 

She  opened  her  eyes — fatal  use!  "Is  Mr.  Cha- 
veney  here?    I  thought  he  said " 

Wilbraham  chuckled.  "Did  you  suppose  he'd  go 
when  it  came  to  the  point?  Not  he!  Why,  before 
we'd  played  half  a  set  he  came  to  borrow  some 
clothes  off  me." 

He  glided  smoothly  into  the  library.  Mrs.  Ger- 
main fetched  her  book. 


II 

REFLECTIONS   ON   HONEYMOONS   AND   SUCHLIKE 

The  years  fly,  we  know,  and  come  not  again,  and 
there's  balm  in  that  for  the  wounds  they  leave.  For 
we  forget  a  good  deal,  and  Hope  is  a  faithful  lover, 
and  never  quits  us  for  long  together;  and  then  there's 
honest  Use-and-Wont,  surely  our  friend.  Because 
you  were  a  fool  yesterday,  you're  wise  to-day;  and 
if  you're  a  fool  to-morrow — why,  the  alternation  is 
established.  There's  a  progression,  it  is  like  the 
rotation  of  crops. 

There's  a  mort  of  healing  in  a  brace  of  longish 
years.  The  county,  which  had  found  little  Mrs. 
Germain  stiff  when  she  came  home  from  her  honey- 
moon, now  looked  to  her  for  stiffness  when  it  felt 
relaxed.  Her  idiosyncrasy  was  accepted,  you  see; 
once  admitted  to  be  a  person,  she  became  a  person- 
age. And,  discovered  by  the  county,  she  discovered 
herself.  She  found  out  that  she  had  a  character; 
she  had  never  known  that  before,  nor  had  any  others 
who  had  had  to  do  with  her:  Mrs.  James,  to  wit. 
Miss  de  Speyne,  her  husband.  The  process  of  these 
discoveries  ought  to  entertain  us  for  a  chapter,  and 
its  resolution  shall  be  attempted.  But  the  county 
learned  it  first,  when  it  came  to  rely  upon  her  stiff- 

221 


222  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

ness.  The  Chaveneys,  the  Gerald  Swetebredes,  the 
Trevor-Waynes,  the  Perceforest  people,  before  the 
two  years  were  over,  forgot  that  they  had  ever  eyed 
each  other,  with  brows  inquiring  'Colonial?"  or 
spelling  ^'Hopeless,  my  dear!"  Such  looks  had 
passed,  but  now,  on  the  contrary,  they  leaned — 
some  heavily.  Lady  Chaveney  was  one.  "She  is 
charming  with  Guy,"  she  said  more  than  once, 
"quite  charming.  An  influence — in  the  nicest  way." 
She  added,  once,  as  if  the  news  was  sacred,  "I  be- 
lieve he's  told  her  everything."  Guy  was  the  Cha- 
veney heir,  the  florid,  assured  youth  whom  we  met 
just  now  on  our  visit;  he  had  been  pronounced 
"wild"  by  Mr.  Germain;  and  he  had  told  her  every- 
thing. She  took  herself  quite  seriously  with  Guy,  in 
the  elder-sister  fashion,  Mr.  Germain,  at  first  ap- 
proving, as,  at  first,  he  had  approved  every  sign  of 
her  making  way.  He  came,  before  the  end  of  two 
years,  to  feel  differently,  lost  touch  with  the  sense  of 
his  benevolence,  felt  to  be  losing  grip  of  many  things. 
But  in  the  early  days  he  had  approved,  there's  no 
doubt — in  those  days  of  stress  and  taut  nerves  when, 
returning  from  a  honeymoon  by  much  too  long,  she 
had  found  Mrs.  James  pervading  the  great,  orderly 
house,  and  had,  without  knowing  it,  braced  herself 
for  a  tussle,  and  unawares  found  herself  in  it,  and 
amazingly  the  winner.  Her  husband  had  backed  her 
up  there,  in  his  quiet  way.  Short,  quick,  breathless 
work  it  had  been— a  fight  in  spasms.  She  had  been 
crossing  the  hall  when  the  great  lady  came  out  of  the 
Little  Library. 


HONEYMOONS  AND   SUCHLIKE  223 

"Ah,  Mary — A  Mrs.  Burgess  has  called,  I  see — 
wife  of  some  one  in  Farlingbridge.  She  called  while 
you  were  out.  A  politeness  very  natural  under  the 
circumstances — but  not  the  custom  here,  I  think. 
Lady  Diana,  I  happen  to  know,  never — I  suppose 
you  will  send  cards  by  the  carriage.  That  would  an- 
swer the  purpose  very  well.  We  have  never  known 
the  townspeople,  you  know — in  that  sort  of  way. 
There  is  a  tenants'  party  in  the  summer.  They 
come  to  that." 

Mary  had  listened.  She  was  pale,  but  her  eyes 
smouldered. 

"I  can't  do  that,  Mrs.  Germain.  I  mean,  I  must 
return  the  call." 

"Ah?    It  will  be  against  my  recommendation." 

"I  am  very  sorry.  I  asked  Mrs.  Burgess  to  call 
when  I  met  her  the  other  day  at  Waysford." 

"Really?  Waysford?  One  would  meet  her 
there,  I  suppose.    A  Sale  of  Work?" 

"Yes.  But  I  asked  her  to  call  upon  me.  It  was 
kind  of  her  to  come  so  soon." 

Mrs.  James  pressed  her  lips  together.  So  soon! 
Why,  the  woman  would  fly!  "Does  my  brother 
know  of  this,  may  I  ask?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mary,  out  of  breath.  She 
was  scared,  but  meant  to  go  on. 

"It  will  be  better  that  he  should  be  told." 

"If  you  think  it  will  interest  him — yes,"  Mary 
said,  and  went  upstairs — to  stare  out  of  window, 
clench  and  unclench  her  hands.  Mrs.  James  re- 
ported the  case  to  her  brother-in-law,  and  Mary 


224  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

drove,  the  next  day,  to  Farlingbridge — her  husband 
with  her — and  returned  the  call.  Nothing  more  was 
said;  nor,  when  the  visit  of  a  Colonel  Dermott,  V.C., 
and  his  lady,  townspeople,  too,  had  to  be  witnessed, 
was  a  word  of  warning  uttered.  But  Mrs.  James  left 
within  a  fortnight  of  her  rout,  staying  only  for  the 
first  dinner-party  at  Southover.  That  was  how  she 
learned  that  Mary  Middleham  had  character.  It 
shocked  her;  and  it  was  annoying,  too,  that  she 
could  expect  no  sympathy  from  James. 

The  house-parties  for  the  winter  shooting,  and 
those  dinner-parties  for  the  county  had  to  be  gone 
through  with  somehow.  She  set  herself  squarely  to 
the  task,  and  was  glad  enough  to  believe  towards  the 
end  of  her  two  years  that  she  was  learning  the  busi- 
ness. There  was  little  to  do,  indeed,  but  be  agree- 
able, but  she  found  that  more  than  enough.  Agree- 
able she  could  be  when  she  felt  happy;  her  nature 
was  as  sweet  as  an  apple.  But  if  she  felt  hurt  she 
must  show  it,  and  she  discovered  that  that  was  a 
cardinal  sin.  Then  there  was  the  language  to  master, 
the  queer,  impertinent,  leisurely  laconics  of  these 
people — expensive,  perfectly  complacent,  incredibly 
idle  young  men,  old  men  without  reticence,  airy, 
free-spoken  women,  and  girls  who  unaffectedly  ig- 
nored her.  To  cope  with  such  as  these  she  must  be 
even  as  they  were,  or  seem  so.  The  quickness  of 
their  give-and-take  in  conversation,  the  ripple  and 
flow,  the  ease  of  the  thing,  asked  an  alertness  of  her 
which  excited  while  it  tried  her  to  death.  Perpet- 
ually flagging  at  the  game,  she  spurred  herself  per- 


HONEYMOONS   AND   SUCHLIKE  225 

petually;  for  she  discovered  that  there  is  no  more 
deadly  sin  in  the  code  than  an  awkward  pause,  that 
being  all  of  a  piece  with  the  end  and  aim  of  living — 
which  is  smooth  running.  A  woman  should  die 
sooner  than  drop  a  conversation,  or  murder  it. 

She  was  at  her  best  with  the  m.en,  as  perhaps  she 
might  expect.  She  could  run,  she  could  walk  all 
day,  chatter,  laugh  outright,  seem  to  be  herself; 
they  paid  her  the  compliment  of  approving  looks. 
But  among  the  women  she  knew  that  she  must  be 
herself,  a  very  different  thing.  She  felt  infinitely 
small,  ill-dressed,  ill-mannered,  clumsy,  and  a  dunce. 
It  was  from  them,  however,  that  she  gained  her 
reputation  of  being  stiff;  she  had  them  to  thank  for 
that.  It  had  come  to  her  in  a  flash  of  spirit  one  day 
in  the  summer  of  her  first  year,  that  if  ignoring  was 
in  the  wind,  she  could  ignore  with  the  best.  She 
chose  to  ignore  Mrs.  Chilmarke,  Mrs.  Ralph  Chil- 
marke,  a  beauty,  a  dainty  blonde  and  a  wit.  She  did 
it  steadily  for  three  days,  at  what  a  cost  she  could 
never  have  guessed  when  she  began  it,  and  her 
reward  was  great.  Mrs.  Chilmarke  respected  her  for 
it,  and  the  Duchess — a  duchess  was  in  the  house — 
was  frankly  delighted,  and  said  so.  She  had  watched 
out  the  match,  and  had  backed  the  brune. 

Under  such  exertions  as  these  character  will  out, 
while  it  may  slumber  through  years  of  pedagogy. 
But  she  worked  hard  at  her  lessons  directly  she 
had  found  out  what  she  wanted,  and  was  tolerably 
equipped  for  her  tour  in  France  and  Italy  when  the 
time  came.    She  made  no  way  with  Latin — Mr.  Ger- 


226  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

main  had  to  give  that  up;  and  English  literature 
made  her  yawn.  She  insisted  on  botany,  for  reasons 
unknown  to  the  good  gentleman,  and  became  great 
friends  with  the  head  gardener,  a  Scotchman,  who 
made  the  initial  mistake  of  supposing  her  a  little  fool, 
and  was  ever  afterwards  her  obedient  servant. 
Shall  we  do  wrong  in  putting  this  study  down  to 
Senhouse's  credit?  I  think  not.  Quietly  and  me- 
thodically, after  a  method' all  her  own,  Mary  Ger- 
main began  to  find  herself,  as  they  say.  But  before 
she  did  that  her  husband  had  to  find  her;,  and  he, 
poor  gentleman,  who  had  had  to  begin  upon  their 
wedding  day,  was  at  the  end  of  his  discoveries  before 
he  was  at  the  end  of  his  honeymoon.  So  far  he 
struggled,  but  after  that  he  suffered — dumbly  and  in 
secret,  within  his  plate  armour.  The  fact  is,  there 
had  been  too  much  honeymoon.  His  evident  dis- 
comfort had  made  her  self-conscious,  killed  her  ease, 
threatened  her  gratitude — upon  which  he  had  pro- 
posed to  subsist — and  turned  him  from  an  improb- 
able mate  into  a  rather  unsuccessful  father  of  his 
wife. 

October  is  a  bad  time  for  honeymoons;  the  even- 
ings are  so  long.  Nevertheless,  at  Torquay,  her 
mind  had  been  fairly  easy  about  him.  He  had  liked 
the  hotel.  At  Saltcombe  he  had  been  pretty  miser- 
able, much  on  her  conscience.  He  had  taught  her 
chess,  it  seems,  and  if  she  had  known  what  she  was 
about,  chess  might  have  done  pretty  well.  But  un- 
fortunately she  took  to  chess,  and  began  to  beat  him 
at  it  by  audacious  combinations  and  desperate  sallies 


HONEYMOONS   AND   SUCHLIKE  227 

quite  unwarranted  by  science.  That  vexed  him 
sadly.  He  abandoned  the  game,  telHng  her  frankly 
that  he  could  not  help  being  irritated  to  see  skill  out- 
vailed  by  temerity.  ''One  plays,  you  see,  my  love, 
for  the  pleasure  of  playing,  not  to  win.  That  is  the 
first  condition  of  a  pastime."  She  told  him  she  was 
very  sorry,  and  he  kissed  her.  But  after  that  Villiers 
used  to  lay  newspapers  and  reviews  on  the  sitting- 
room  table  while  they  were  dining.  She  consoled 
herself  with  the  remembrance  of  that  kiss  on  the  lips ; 
it  was  nearly  the  last  of  them.  He  selected  her  fore- 
head, from  Saltcombe  onwards,  or  her  cheek.  From 
Saltcombe  they  went  down  into  Cornwall — Truro, 
Penzance,  Sennen,  St.  Ives.  There  it  was  that  she 
learned  to  be  happy  in  her  own  company.  She  spent 
hours  alone,  scrambling  among  the  rocks,  watching 
the  sea. 

Her  life  was  filling,  her  vistas  opening.  This  was 
great  gain,  to  feel  the  triumph  of  discovery.  She 
had  never  been  so  far  afield  before,  and  the  wild 
splendours  of  rocks  and  seas  made  her  at  times  like 
a  thing  inspired.  She  was  amazed  at  herself — at  the 
stinging  blood  in  her  which  made  her  heart  beat. 
She  used  to  get  up  early  at  Sennen,  steal,  hatless,  out 
of  the  sleeping  inn,  and  fleet  over  turf  to  the  edge  of 
the  cliffs.  There  she  stood  motionless,  with  unwink- 
ing eyes  and  parted  lips,  while  the  wind  enfolded  her. 
All  was  pure  ecstasy;  she  was  like  a  nymph — bare- 
bosomed,  ungirdled,  unfilletted,  in  the  close  arms  of 
the  Country  God.  From  such  hasty  blisses  she  re- 
turned drowsy-eyed,  glossed  with  rose-colour,  with 


228  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

a  sleek  bloom  upon  her,  and  ministered  to  her  hus- 
band's needs,  dressed  v/ith  care,  with  the  neatness 
which  he  loved.  She  sat  queitly  by  him,  hearing  but 
not  heeding  his  measured  tones,  dreaming  of  she 
knew  not  what,  save  that  the  dreams  were  lyric,  and 
sang  of  freedom  in  her  ears. 

They  took  more  tangible  shape  as  they  waxed 
bolder  in  outline  and  scope.  There  was  a  tumble- 
down white  cottage  on  the  cliff  beyond  the  coast- 
guard station;  two  rooms  and  a  wash-house  below 
green  eaves.  It  faced  the  open  sea,  but  lay  other- 
wise snugly  below  a  jutting  boulder,  and  was  so 
much  of  a  piece  with  rock  and  turf  that  the  sea-pinks 
had  seeded  in  the  roof  and  encrusted  it  with  emerald 
tufts.  Her  fancy  adorned  this  tenement;  she  saw 
herself  there  in  a  cotton  gown,  alone  with  wind  and 
sea.  What  a  life!  The  freedom  of  it,  the  space,  the 
promise!  Not  a  speck  could  she  descry  upon  the 
fair  blue  field  of  such  a  life.  Childlike  she  built 
upon  the  airy  fabric,  added  to  it,  assured  herself  of 
it.  Some  day,  some  day  she  would  be  there — free! 
The  thought  made  her  perfectly  happy;  she  felt  her 
blood  glow. 

Mr.  Germ.ain  complained  of  the  damp  Cornish 
air  and  took  her  to  St.  Ives  and  Newquay  on  the  way 
to  Southover.  Once  on  the  homeward  path,  he  had 
no  eyes  for  her  in  Cornwall ;  all  his  hopes  were  now 
set  upon  the  feast  he  should  have  of  her,  queening  it 
there  in  his  hall — queen  by  his  coronation.  She,  for 
her  part,  was  all  for  lingering  good-byes  to  her 
glimpses  of  the  wild.    She  went  obediently,  but  car- 


HONEYMOONS  AND   SUCHLIKE  229 

ried  with  her  the  assurance  that  shq  should  see  her 
cottage  again;  and  by  some  jugghng  of  the  mind,  in 
the  picture  of  it  which  floated  up  before  her  at  call, 
she  came  to  see  always  near  it  the  tilt-cart  and  its 
occupant,  her  friend  of  the  open  Common.  A  com- 
munity down  there!  The  tilt-cart  stood  in  a  hollow 
of  the  rocks  within  sound  and  sight  of  the  sea;  the 
Ghost  cropped  the  thyme  above  it;  Bingo  ran  bark- 
ing out  of  the  tent,  and,  seeing  her,  lowered  his  head 
and  came  wriggling  for  a  caress.  Above  them  all, 
dominant,  stood  her  friend,  bareheaded  to  the  buf- 
feting gale,  so  clearly  at  times  that  she  could  see  the 
wind  bellying  his  white  trousers  or  flacking  the 
points  of  his  rolling  collar.  His  face  unfortunately 
was  not  always  to  be  seen ;  a  mist  over  it  baffled  her, 
but  egged  her  on.  For  a  flash,  for  a  passing  second, 
his  bright,  quizzing  eyes  might  be  upon  her;  she 
could  hear  the  greeting  of  the  dawn  laugh  from  them, 
and  feel  h€r  bosom  swell  as  she  answered  it,  and 
knew  the  long  day  before  them — and  every  long 
day  to  come.  What  a  comradeship  that  might  be — 
what  a  comradeship!  She  came  to  thank  God  daily 
that  she  had  such  a  friend,  and  to  declare  stoutly  to 
herself  that  she  had  no  need  to  see  him.  Friend- 
ship was  independent  of  such  needs;  the  necessities 
of  touching,  eyeing,  speaking — what  were  these  but 
fetters?  Lovers  might  hug  such  chains  and  call 
them  leading-strings.  Poor  lovers  could  not  walk 
without  them.  But  friends  had  their  pride  in  each 
other  and  themselves.  Each  stood  foursquare  in 
the  faith  of  his  friend;   the  independence  of  each 


230  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

was  the  pride  of  the  other.  So  far  was  she  from  lov- 
ing Mr.  Senhouse  that  she  learned  without  a  pang  of 
his  visit  to  the  Cantacutes  in  the  following  summer, 
of  his  painting  days  with  Hertha  de  Speyne,  and 
was  surprised  at  herself.  It  drew  the  two  girls  closer 
together;  it  gave  zest  to  letter- writing,  and  brought 
Miss  Hertha  more  than  once  to  Southover.  Sen- 
house  was  the  presiding  genius  of  their  fireside  talks ; 
between  Hertha  and  Senhouse  Mary  began  to  find 
herself — a  person,  with  a  reasonable  soul  in  human 
flesh. 

Her  wedding-day,  and  the  days  that  followed  it, 
had  dismayed  the  flesh;  she  could  not  be  one  to 
whom  marriage  was  a  sacred  mystery,  to  be  unveiled 
to  piercing  music.  She  had  cried  herself  to  sleep — 
once;  but  she  cried  no  more.  If  she  had  been  in 
love  with  her  husband,  even  if  she  had  ever  been  in 
love  with  anybody,  she  might  have  been  won  over 
by  pity  or  by  passion;  but  poor  Mr.  Germain  was 
incapable  of  the  second,  and  somewhat  to  her  sur- 
prise she  found  herself  unpersuaded,  though  she  was 
touched,  by  the  first.  She  did  pity  him,  she  pitied 
him  deeply,  but  she  could  not  help  him.  Esteem 
she  gave  him,  gratitude,  obedience,  meekness, 
respect.  But  herself — after  that  once — never,  never! 
For  that  discharging  of  her  conscience  of  its  poor 
little  trivial,  human  load  had  been  forced  upon  her  by 
pure  generosity  on  her  part  (she  knew  it),  and  had 
cost  her  an  agony  of  shame.  And  it  had  chilled  him 
to  the  bone — she  had  seen  his  passion  fade  before  her 
eyes,  such  passion  as  he  had.     Her  generosity  had 


HONEYMOONS   AND   SUCHLIKE 


231 


stultified  her,  played  the  traitor.  She  never  taxed 
him  with  want  of  magnanimity,  didn't  know  the 
word — but  she  found  herself  resolute,  and  was  as 
much  surprised  as  he  was.  What  dismay  she  had, 
as  the  honeymoon  wore  on,  was  brought  her  by  her 
own  position,  not  by  her  husband's;  that  a  girl  such 
as  she,  with  undeniable  proofs  to  hand  of  her  attrac- 
tiveness of  face  and  person,  with  experience  of  men 
and  their  ways,  should  find  herself  daughter  to  her 
husband!  An  indulged,  courted,  only  daughter,  if 
you  please — but  certainly  a  daughter.  Here  was  an 
anti-climax,  to  say  the  least  of  it;  and  her  dismay 
endured  through  the  honeymoon — until  Cornish 
cliffs  gave  her  happier  things  to  dream  of.  It  disap- 
peared as  the  great  red  flank  of  Southover  House 
filled  up  the  scene.  Tussles  with  Mrs.  James,  the 
sweets  and  perils  of  victory,  ordeals  of  shooting- 
parties,  dinner-parties,  household  cares,  and,  above 
all,  routine — such  drugs  as  these  sent  her  heart  to 
sleep.  By  the  time  she  had  been  eighteen  months  a 
wife  she  had  forgotten  that  she  had  never  been  other 
than  a  maiden. 

Now,  what  of  Cratylus,  poor  Cratylus  the  mature, 
who,  clasping  his  simple  Mero  (or  Marina)  to  his 
heart,  found  that  he  had  to  reckon  with  her  charac- 
ter first?  Good,  honest  man,  he  had  never  supposed 
her  to  have  one;  and  the  bitter  thing  was  that  the 
finding  of  her  character  woke  up  his  own.  He  saw 
himself  again  in  full  plate-armour,  cowering  behind 
it,  hiding  from  himself  as  well  as  from  the  world  a 
terrible  deformity — an  open  sore  in  his  self-esteem 


232 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


which  could  never  be  healed  again,  which,  at  every 
chance  of  her  daily  life,  must  bleed  and  ache.  Oh, 
the  pity  of  it,  on  how  light  a  spring  all  this  had  de- 
pended— a  hair,  a  gossamer!  Exeter — fatal  day  of 
Exeter!  He  had  believed  himself  young  again.  As 
she  clung  to  him,  half-sobbing,  after  dinner,  he  had 
pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  called  her  his  bride,  his 
wife.  She  had  not  dared  to  look  at  him,  had  bowed 
her  head,  hidden  her  face  in  his  shoulder,  let  him 
feel  the  trembling,  the  wild  beating  of  her  heart. 
Then  her  broken  confessions;  pitiful,  pitiful!  What 
did  they  amount  to,  when  all  was  told?  But  they, 
and  what  followed  upon  them — his  own  conduct,  his 
own  curse;  and  her  conduct,  and  her  curse — were 
his  nightmare.  He  had  found  out  that  he  could  not 
live  if  he  must  remember  them.  He  fought,  literally, 
for  life;  and  after  a  six  months'  toil  had  succeeded 
in  living.  He  spent  himself  in  benevolence  and  care, 
gave  her  everything  she  could  want,  before  she 
asked,  taught  her,  prayed  for  her,  watched  over  her. 
She  was  never  out  of  his  thoughts — and,  poor  girl, 
without  knowing  it,  she  stabbed  him  deeply  every 
day. 

He  had  his  benevolence  to  fall  back  upon.  He 
could  be  King  of  Southover,  of  the  Cophetua  dynas- 
ty; he  could  dazzle  her,  take  her  breath  away,  and 
have  the  delight,  which  he  had  promised  himself,  of 
seeing  her  misty  eyes  and  cheeks  flushed  with  won- 
der. Yes,  yes;  but  the  aesthetic  nerve,  you  see, 
dulls  with  use,  and  the  worst  of  a  king's  homage  to 
a  beggar  maid  is  that  the  more  obsequious  the  horn- 


HONEYMOONS   AND   SUCHLIKE  233 

age  the  less  beggar  is  the  maid.  If  you  set  a  coronet 
in  her  hair  she  will  blush  deliciously  for  a  week ;  but 
in  two  years'  time  it  will  be  there  as  a  matter  of  course, 
put  there  nightly  by  her  woman — and  bang  goes 
your  joy  of  that.  So  with  all  the  other  enrichments 
of  society,  travel,  book-learning.  The  more  she  had 
of  them,  the  more  she  was  able  to  take  for  herself. 
He  who  put  her  m  the  way  of  knowledge  could  not 
grumble  if  she  acted  upon  what  he  had  taught  her. 
Such  gifts  as  his  destroy  themselves.  It  had  filled 
his  eyes  with  tears  to  see  his  wilding  in  the  great  ter- 
raced house,  to  watch  the  little  airs  of  dignity  of 
matronhood,  wifehood  (alas,  poor  gentleman !)  flutter 
about  her,  and,  like  birds,  take  assurance,  and  alight. 
Her  cares  were  charming,  too.  It  was  pretty  to  see 
her  knit  her  brows  over  some  tough  nugget  of  Dante's, 
exquisite  when  she  came  faltering  to  him,  coaxing 
for  help.  But  then,  naturally,  the  more  help  she  had 
the  less  she  came.  It  grew  to  be  her  pride  to  get 
through  alone — her  pride  and  his  disaster.  No. 
Tristram  Duplessis  had  been  wiser  in  his  generation 
than  he.  If  you  love  to  fill  a  thing  you  must  take 
care  to  keep  it  pretty  empty.  Thus  it  was  that  King 
Cophetua  kneeled  in  vain.  He  had  kneeled  too  low. 
But  there's  a  balm  in  the  passing  years  for  Craty- 
lus  as  well  as  for  Marina.  The  musical  clockwork 
of  Southover,  which  he  had  promised  himself,  be- 
came his.  He  went  about  his  duties  as  landlord, 
county  magnate,  patron  of  reasonable  things,  toler- 
ably sure  of  a  welcome  home  from  a  pair  of  kind 
brown  eyes.    Kisses  might  be  his  if  he  chose  to  call 


234 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


for  them,  clinging  arms,  a  warm  and  grateful  heart. 
Such  things  had  to  be  his  solace;  and  sometimes 
they  were.  And  he  still  fought  for  his  treasure, 
against  all  the  odds,  with  his  teeth  set  hard.  If  he 
had  lost  grip  it  was  because  her  muscles  were  more 
practised.  He  must  try  another,  and  another,  if  he 
would  whirl  her  in  the  air.  He  must  impress  her 
anew,  prove  to  her  that  he  was  a  man,  honour- 
worthy  and  loveworthy.  His  ambitions  were  re- 
kindled: that  was  the  result  of  his  musings.  In  the 
spring  of  the  year,  when  the  tulips  blazed  in  the 
Italian  gardens,  and  Mary  Middieham  had  been 
Mary  Germain  for  a  good  eighteen  months,  we  heard 
him  speak  with  young  Mr.  Wilbraham  of  Sir  Gre- 
gory and  the  Farlingbridge  division  of  the  county. 
There  was  a  chance  of  lighting  up  the  wonder  again 
in  a  pair  of  brown  eyes.  He  hoarded  the  thought  for 
the  month,  and  by  June  had  made  up  his  mind. 
Then  he  broke  it  to  his  Mary.  ^'I  will  gladly  put  my 
experience  at  the  service  of  the  country,"  he  told  her, 
^^and  convince  you,  if  I  can,  that  I  am  not  too  old  for 
a  public  career."  She  had  told  him  that  he  wasn't 
old  at  all,  and  had  kissed  his  forehead.  They  hap- 
pened to  be  alone  for  a  few  days  just  then;  so  that 
he  could  draw  her  down  to  his  knee  and  talk  to  her 
about  himself,  and  the  part  she  would  have  to  play 
for  him  in  London.  The  house  in  Hill-street  must 
be  reopened. 


Ill 

MATTERS   OF  ELECTION 

The  country  showed  the  periodic  symptoms  the 
moment  Parliament  was  dissolved;  the  market- 
place of  Farlingbridge  hummed  with  rumour. 
Farmers  in  gigs  pulled  up  to  discuss  the  affairs  of  the 
nation  with  farmers  on  horseback,  with  hedgers, 
ditchers,  tinkers,  anybody.  Class  flowed  over  class, 
and  The  Reverend  Stephen  Burgess,  Vicar  of  the 
town,  exchanged  evening  papers  with  Reverend 
Samuel  R.ock,  Congregational  minister.  Blue  and 
red  were  in  the  air;  Mr.  Germain  had  long  sittings 
with  young  Mr.  Wilbraham.  Presently  a  deputation 
attended,  by  leave,  at  Southover  and  was  received  in 
the  library.  The  seat  was  to  be  contested,  it  seemed; 
the  Honourable  Leopold  Levitt  intended  to  fight. 
Now  would  Mr.  Germain  fight  him  ?  In  a  weighed 
speech  of  twenty  minutes  Mr.  Germain  declared  his 
loins  to  be  girded.  ^^  Pompous  old  boy,''  said  Mr. 
Tom  Blyth,  the  Liberal  harness-maker,  to  Mr. 
Peake,  the  Liberal  agent;  *'but  he's  good  enough 
for  the  Honourable  Levitt."  Mr.  Peake  thought  he 
was  just  good  enough.  It  was  to  be  a  narrow  thing, 
a  close-run  thing.    The  addresses  of  the  candidates 

showed  as  much.    "Those  great  institutions  to  which 

235 


236  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

this  country  of  ours — "  cried  the  Honourable  Mr. 
Levitt  in  ink.  ^' Those  institutions  to  which  this  great 
country  of  ours — "  was  the  peroration  of  Mr.  Ger- 
main. There  was  to  be  very  httle  in  it.  Mr.  Peake, 
the  agent,  said  that  the  ladies  would  do  the  trick. 
The  Honourable  Mrs.  Levitt  was  stout,  and  twenty 
years  older  than  her  Leopold. 

The  writs  were  out  in  August,  the  election  was  to 
be  in  October.  Mary,  who  had  begun  to  lose  colour 
during  the  summer  heats,  grew  animated  again  at 
the  prospect  of  the  bustle.  She  had  been  getting  in- 
trospective, too,  had  been  sometimes  fretful,  some- 
times glum.  She  thought  more  than  was  good  for  her 
about  things  which  could  not  be  helped.  But  for  a 
flying  Sunday  visit,  she  had  not  seen  her  own  people 
since  her  wedding  day;  for  Mr.  Germain  had  given 
up  Misperton  once  more,  and  seemed  to  dislike  the 
notion  of  her  leaving  him  at  such  a  time  as  this. 
Here,  then,  was  a  chance  for  her  to  be  useful.  She 
told  her  husband  that  she  felt  sure  of  Farlingbridge, 
and  when  he  shook  his  head  despondent  she  told  him 
why.  "They  like  me  there,  you  know,"  she  said, 
blushing  and  laughing.  "I  know  they  do;  besides 
Mrs.  Blyth  told  me  so.  Oh,  and  Colonel  Dermott 
stopped  me  yesterday  and  said  that  you  might  be 
easy.  He'll  speak  for  you  wherever  you  w^ant  him.'' 
Colonel  Dermott  was  an  introduction  of  hers  to  the 
penetralia  of  Southover;  a  fiery  Irishman  with  a  turn 
for  sarcasm.  What  he  had  really  said  to  her  was 
that  he'd  go  to  the  stake  for  her,  but  that  it  wouldn't 
be  necessary.    He  admired  her  unaffectedly. 


MATTERS   OF   ELECTION  237 

As  the  campaign  progressed  on  its  roaring  way 
Mr.  Germain  became  conscious  that  greater  efforts 
than  his  own  were  necessary.  The  Honourable  Mr. 
Levitt  was  untiring.  He  drove  his  own  drag,  and 
seemed  to  have  a  speech  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  for 
every  village  green.  To  Mr.  Germain  speeches  were 
matters  of  enormous  preparation,  literary  and  eco- 
nomic. He  balanced  his  periods  as  carefully  as  his 
convictions;  he  polished  them,  gave  them  form;  but 
he  could  not  fire  them,  because  he  had  no  fire.  ^'We 
must  give  it  'em  hot,  Mr.  Germain,  we  must  indeed," 
said  Peake,  the  agent.  Mr.  Germain  knew  very 
well  that  he  gave  it  them  cold.  The  charming  spec- 
tacle of  his  young  wife,  in  red  cloth,  driving  her  ponies 
in  red  harness,  a  red  bow  on  her  whip  and  red  roses 
in  her  bosom,  far  from  kindling  him,  whitened  the 
ashes  of  his  hearth.  She  was  pretty,  she  was  gay, 
she  went  again  and  again  to  the  attack,  and  coaxed 
for  votes  as  a  child  for  sweets.  One  great  sensation 
was  when  Guy  Chaveney  ratted,  and  wore  red;  an- 
other when  Levitt  publicly  alluded  to  her  as  his 
"fair  enemy,"  and  was  drowned  in  the  cheers  of  his 
own  party.  Colonel  Dermott  swept  her  into  debate 
with  his  hand.  ''Here's  the  lady  we  follow  and 
serve,  gentlemen,"  and  he  turned  to  her  where  she 
sat  glowing  on  the  platform.  ''By  the  powers,  gen- 
tlemen, I'd  run  her  up  to  Westminster  by  myself," 
he  went  on;  "but  we'll  share  in  the  enterprise,  if 
you  please."  A  little  more  of  that  and  we  were  in, 
said  Mr.  Peake. 

Help  from  on  high  was  promised,  of  an  exciting 


238  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

kind.  The  Right  Honourable  Constantine  Jess, 
President  once  of  the  Board  of  Trade,  now  Secretary 
of  State  apparent,  offered  to  come  down  and  help  his 
old  friend.  He  offered,  I  assume,  in  such  a  way  that 
he  could  not  be  refused;  for  his  approach  was  an- 
nounced to  Mary  one  morning  over  the  breakfast 
table,  and  received  by  her  with  the  calmness  proper 
to  county  ladies.  But  there  had  been  more.  ^'He 
brings  Tristram,  his  private  secretary.  You  remem- 
ber Tristram  Duplessis,  Mary?" 

She  managed  it.  "Yes,"  she  said.  "I  remember 
him  very  well." 

Mrs.  Hartley — Mrs.  Leonard  Hartley,  I  mean — 
said  that  she  had  heard  him  speak.  He  reminded 
her  of  Mirabeau.  Sir  James  Plash  had  asked,  "Which 
Mirabeau?"  and  driven  Mrs.  Leonard  into  a  corner. 

"Oh,  Carlyle's,  of  course!"  she  answered — and 
the  talk  flowed  over  Tristram  Duplessis. 

But  behind  her  fortification  of  silver  urns  and 
coffee-cups,  she  did  remember  him.  Her  eyes  wide, 
sombre,  and  brooding,  made  no  sign.  It  is  the  pre- 
rogative of  county  eyes  to  be  still,  and  of  married 
eyes  to  be  indifferent.  She  did  not  smile  at  her 
thoughts,  nor  betray  that  they  were  not  of  a  smiling 
kind.  But  she  felt  her  heart  quicken  its  beat,  knew 
that  she  was  to  be  put  to  the  proof,  and  that  her 
husband  had  chosen  it  to  be  so.  To  the  racing 
rhythm  in  her  head  ran  the  refrain,  "I  knew  he  must 
come.    He  never  forgets." 

Notes  must  be  written  and  answers  received.  His 
was  very  short : — 


MATTERS   OF  ELECTION  239 

''Dear  Mrs.  Germain, — I  am  very  glad  to  come 
and  help  you.  Certainly,  we  must  bring  him  in. 
Yrs.  sincerely,  Tr.  Duplessis."  It  required  sharp 
scrutiny  to  read  between  the  lines  of  such  a  letter, 
and  sharp  scrutiny  was  applied — more  than  once. 
She  pinched  her  lip  over  it  as  she  sat  alone,  and  car- 
ried it  with  her  as  she  walked  the  park — but  when  she 
found  herself  doing  that  she  tore  it  up.  ''I  am  very 
glad  to  come  and  help  you";  that  ''you"  was  an 
after- thought.  "Certainly,  we  must  bring  him  in"; 
that  "we"  proved  it.  She  knew,  better  than  most, 
how  Tristram  could  imply  himself  in  a  note.  He  had 
forgotten  nothing,  never  would  forget  anything. 
No!    No  more  had  she  forgotten. 

Of  all  her  former  lovers  this  was  the  one  man  who 
could  cause  her  any  disquiet,  or  have  evoked  any 
sensation.  She  could  never  have  recalled  herself  as 
she  had  been,  two  years  ago,  by  any  other  aid  than 
his.  John  Rudd  ?  Ambrose  Perivale  ?  It  is  doubt- 
ful if  she  would  have  known  them  again.  Sharper 
memories,  a  sharper  fragrance  clung  about  Tristram. 
Of  all  of  them,  it  was  with  him  that  her  relations  had 
been  the  least  explicit ;  but  it  had  been  he,  also,  who 
had  thereby  implied  the  most.  He  was  master  of 
implication — that  delicate  art  which  leaves  it  to  the 
imagination  of  the  object  to  read  what  precisely  is 
implied.  Had  Tristram  implied  love?  She  never 
knew:  that  made  Tristram's  dealing  so  exciting. 
Of  course  he  had  admired  her;  his  savage  looks,  as 
if  she  stung  and  vexed  him,  had  assured  her  of  that. 
Her  presence — her  near  presence — seemed  always 


240  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

to  make  him  angry;  her  absence  angrier  still,  since  he 
always  came  after  her,  and  never  forgot  to  let  her 
see  how  angry  he  had  been.  Yes,  he  admired  her; 
but  admired  other  things  more,  much  more:  his 
books,  his  scholarship,  the  power  he  had,  and,  vastly 
more,  himself.  He  was  endlessly  interested  in  him- 
self, only  ^^hked"  her  as  showing  him  himself  in  new 
aspects;  but  she  accepted  that  as  a  part  of  him,  like 
the  cut  of  his  clothes;  and  there  was  no  doubt  as  to 
her  own  feeling;  she  had  admired  Tristram  on  this 
side  adolatry,  just  on  this  side.  Tristram  intended  to 
be  Somebody :  he  used  to  tell  her  so,  in  a  way  which 
made  her  understand  that  he  knew  her  to  be  a  little 
Nobody.  All  the  same,  he  couldn't  keep  his  eyes  off 
her,  or  his  steps  from  turning  to  where  she  was,  or 
'was  like  to  be.  In  a  sense,  then,  she  had  drawn  Tris- 
tram Duplessis;  and  that's  an  exciting  thing  for  a 
little  nobody  to  do. 

If  he  had  been  her  lover  as  well,  it  had  been  in  a 
way  of  his  own.  He  had  told  her  often  and  often  that 
he  disapproved  of  her — of  her  too  speaking  eyes,  for 
instance  (which  could  and  did  speak  in  those  days), 
of  her  little  affairs  with  Dick  or  Tom,  as  to  which  he 
had  given  himself  the  trouble  to  be  exactly  informed ; 
of  her  lack  of  ambition ;  and  because  she  was  a  dunce. 
And  she  had  laughed  or  blushed,  or  been  offended — 
she  had  never  been  hurt ;  and  had  allowed  herself  to 
be  put  under  the  rod  of  his  tongue,  or  the  gibe  of  his 
eyes  again  and  again.  She  thought  now — with  hot 
cheeks — that  she  ought  to  have  felt  herself  insulted, 
and,  with  hotter  cheeks,  that  it  was  doubtful  even 


MATTERS   OF   ELECTION  241 

now  whether  she  would  feel  herself  so.  To  have  a 
book  thrown  into  her  lap,  with  the  inference  that  she 
couldn't  read  it;  to  be  kissed  without  leave  asked, 
or  to  kiss  again  without  notice  taken — these  should 
have  insulted  Mary  Middleham:  but  would  they 
insult  Mary  Germain?  Tingling  cheeks  were  no 
answer. 

Tristram  had  indeed  been  very  exciting;  he  had 
been  unaccountable,  arbitrary,  splendid;  to  have 
attracted  his  scowling  looks  had  been  one  of  her  tri- 
umphs. It  had  been  a  triumph,  even,  that  Misper- 
ton  Brand  knew  all  about  it,  and  that  part  of  it  had 
been  scandalized.  Yet — and  for  all  that — thinking 
over  it  now,  with  his  coming  again  so  close  at  hand, 
she  knew  perfectly  well  that  she  had  not  been  in  love 
with  him,  and  was  not  in  love  with  him  now.  He 
had  treated  her  in  too  lordly  a  fashion  altogether. 
Dimly  she  could  guess  that  love  was  another  affair. 
It  might  be  possible  for  a  girl  to  worship  a  man  as  a 
god — but  that  was  never  love.  She  knew  better  than 
that  now.  But  certainly  she  must  confess,  even 
now,  to  a  tenderness  for  her  reminiscences  of  Tris- 
tram, who  had  singled  her  out  of  a  herd,  watched, 
followed,  engrossed  her,  and  in  his  own  morose  and 
grudging  way  had  seemed  to  be  in  love  with  her. 
He  had  known  how  to  kiss,  anyhow.  As  she  inhaled 
the  sharp  fragrance  of  those  days  she  was  again  ex- 
cited. There  had  been  glamour.  She  recalled,  with 
a  thrill,  the  Sunday  afternoon  when  Mrs.  James  had 
caught  him  reading  Shelley  to  her  under  the  apple 
tree,  and  blushed  anew  as  she  had  blushed  then. 


242 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


And  the  continuous  alarm  of  the  affair!  The  mo- 
ments snatched  in  pauses  of  the  chase!  Yes,  there 
had  been  glamour,  and  it  had  been  sweet — perilous 
and  sweet.  It  was  a  thing  to  remember,  but  not  to 
fear.  She  didn't  think  she  need  fear  anything,  es- 
pecially as  she  had  told  Mr.  Germain  all  about  it — 
or  as  good  as  told  him. 

But  it's  always  ticklish  work,  meeting  an  old 
heart's  acquaintance  on  new  terms.  Neither  party 
to  the  business  can  face  it  quite  unmoved.  For  him, 
there's  the  painful,  curious  inquiry: — ^^This,  this  is 
she  with  whom  I  had  fondly  hoped — !  Now,  look, 
there  is  knowledge  stored  within  those  limpid  eyes — 
and  I  might  have  put  it  there!  She  and  I  share  ex- 
periences, which  He — that  interloper — can  never 
share.  With  this  I  must  dress  my  wounded  side." 
All  that  his  handshake,  or  his  bow,  may  convey  to 
her.  Upon  her  side — the  sedately  conscious  of  two 
men's  regard — veiled  within  her  eyes  there's  this  for 
the  ousted  lover :  ^' You  may  spare  me  the  rod.  lam 
another's,  who  might  have  been  yours.  You  loved 
me  once,  you  told  me;  be  charitable  now!"  And  all 
that  she  will  express  in  the  flutter  of  her  greeting. 

Tristram  Duplessis,  loose-limbed,  flushed,  frown- 
ing as  of  old,  may  have  implied  it,  or  she,  who  played 
him  hostess  of  Southover,  may  have  appealed  in  that 
fashion.  *^How  d'you  do?"  was  what  he  said  in 
words,  when  he  took  her  hand,  which  she  held  out, 
in  a  nerveless  clasp.  He  had  arrived  late  in  the 
afternoon,  when  the  hall  was  fully  occupied;  stock- 
inged young  men,   in  from  shooting,   short-kirtled 


MATTERS   OF   ELECTION  243 

ladies,  in  from  getting  in  their  way;  a  dowager  or 
two  reading  evening  papers,  and  a  whiskered  pro- 
fessor in  sh'ppers.  One  must  imply  skilfully  in  such 
a  company. 

And  then,  to  be  sure,  there  w^as  Mr.  Constantino 
Jess,  ponderous,  benevolent,  all  for  domesticity,  to 
be  reckoned  with.  All  women  liked  Mr.  Jess  be- 
cause, although  he  was  prodigiously  learned,  he 
owned  to  a  weakness  for  small  talk  and  soft  voices. 
It  was  he,  then,  who  had  the  triumph  of  the  entry. 
^'Ah,  Mrs.  Germain,  this  is  a  welcome  indeed.  And 
doth  not  a  meeting  like  this  make  amends?"  His 
quick,  full-cushioned  eyes  swept  the  comers  of  the 
room — ^^My  dear  Lady  Barbara — !  Lady  Wen- 
trode,  your  servant — How  d'ye  do?  How  d'ye  do?" 
These  things  accomplished,  he  turned  to  his  hostess, 
cup  in  hand,  and  sank  into  the  cushions  by  her  side. 
*'We  have  not  met,  I  think,  since  that  auspicious 
day — two  years  ago?  Is  it  that?  Dear  me,  how 
Time  makes  sport  with  us!  One  should  hear  the 
Titans  laugh.  I  had  promised  myself  an  earlier  con- 
templation of  your  felicity,  but — business!  busi- 
ness!" He  sighed,  drained  his  teacup,  and  asked 
for  more.  *^It  must  have  been  within  a  week  of  your 
marriage  that  my  young  friend  and  I  took  a  fancy 
for  each  other.  A  marriage  of  minds!  Tristram, 
my  dear  fellow,  when  was  it?"  He  had  taught  his 
secretary  the  duty  of  playing  chorus.  That  was  very 
necessary  to  Mr.  Jess. 

Tristram,  leisurely,  as  of  old,  sipped  his  tea  before 
answering,  got  up  and  waited  for  another  cup  while 


244  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

he  collected  his  reply.     ''It's  a  long  time — I  know 
that.    Thanks,  no  sugar." 

''Oh,  I'm  so  sorry — I  forgot."  She  looked  up  at 
him  hazardously.    "You  always  took  it,  I  thought?" 

"I  know.  But  I've  dropped  all  that.  Better 
without  it."    He  spoke  lightly. 

The  campaign  was  broached  by  Mr.  Jess.  "Well, 
and  how  does  my  friend  in  the  field?  Gallantly,  I 
am  sure;  happily,  I  hope." 

Mrs.  Germain  thought  that  he  would  win.  "He 
works  very  hard.  He's  speaking  now,  somewhere — 
out  of  the  carriage,  at  a  harvest  home.  I  ought  to 
have  been  with  him,  but " 

"You  stayed  to  be  hospitable  to  us.  We  are 
grateful.  At  least,  I  speak  for  myself.  Tristram 
there  takes  kindness  for  granted." 

"Not  Mrs.  Germain's,"  said  Tristram,  and 
startled  her. 

However,  she  laughed.  "I  don't  think  it  was  very 
kind  of  me;  I  was  glad  to  be  let  off.  I'm  sure  every- 
thing will  go  right  now.  Did  you  know  that  you 
must  begin  to-night,  Mr.  Jess?  Do  you  mind? 
There's  a  meeting  at  the  Corn  Exchange  at  eight. 
We  are  dining  early." 

Mr.  Jess  laid  his  comfortable  hand  upon  his 
heart.  "I  follow  my  leader.  Where  she  calls  me  I 
am  ever  to  be  found." 

And  then  she  raised  her  eyes  to  Tristram.  "Will 
you  speak  for  us,  Mr.  Duplessis?"  He  started,  as 
out  of  a  stare. 

"Who?    I?    Oh,  I'll  do  as  I'm  bid,  of  course." 


MATTERS   OF   ELECTION  245 

''Enlist  him,  my  dear  lady,  enrol  him,"  cried  Mr. 
Jess,  twinkling,  ''but  if  you  love  me,  let  him  follow 
me.    He  has  a  note  like  a  trumpet." 

"Really?"    She  opened  her  eyes  upon  Tristram. 

"I  can  make  a  row,"  he  admitted.  "But  perhaps 
Germain  won't  like  that." 

"I  am  sure  he  will  like  whatever  you  do,"  said 
she.  Duplessis  made  no  answer,  but  did  not  shirk 
the  reflection  that,  if  he  did,  it  would  indicate  a  strik- 
ing change  in  the  gentleman's  views. 

At  this  moment  a  fair-haired  young  lady  in  a 
riding-habit — Miss  Nina  Swetebrede  of  Copestake 
— came  in,  craving  tea.  She  distributed  her  nods 
and  smiles  on  either  hand  as  she  advanced  to  the 
table.  '^Dear  Mary,  I'm  so  tired,"  she  pleaded. 
"Do  feed  me,  and  make  a  fuss  of  me,  and  I  shall 
love  you."  The  newly  arrived  gentlemen  were 
made  known  to  her,  and  Mr.  Jess  courtly  and  ten- 
derly jocular,  ministered  to  her  needs.  She  an- 
nexed him  without  scruple.  This  left  Duplessis  in 
possession  of  the  tea-table.  But  the  attack  was 
Mary's. 

"So  you  have  taken  to  politics  in  earnest?" 

He  shrugged.  "I  don't  know  that  I'm  in  earnest. 
That's  putting  politics  rather  high.  The  game  is  as 
good  as  another." 

She  might  have  known  that  he  would  never  ad- 
mit earnestness — to  her.    But  she  felt  snubbed. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  went  on,  "that  either  every  side 
in  politics  is  partly  right,  in  which  case  it's  only 
common  honesty  to  say  so — or  that  all  sides  are  en- 


246  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

tirely  wrong,  which  means  that  only  rascals  can  suc- 
ceed at  it.  So  that,  in  any  event,  one  must  be  more 
or  less  of  a  rogue." 

She  ventured  a  little  laugh.  ^'I  know  what  you 
mean — or  think  I  do.  I  know  more  about  politics 
than  I  did — once." 

He  parried  that.  ^^One  gets  to  know  something, 
of  course.  You  talk  of  nothing  else  here,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

There  seemed  to  be  a  sting  in  this.  Loyalty  must 
meet  it.  ^'But  indeed  we  do — "  she  began,  and  he 
saved  the  position  for  her  by  saying  that  he  wished 
he  could  say  the  same  for  himself.  ''But  there'll  be 
no  chance  of  rational  conversation,"  he  told  her, 
''until  that  fellow's  safely  in  the  Home  Office." 

Mr.  Jess  was  placidly  contemplating  Miss  Nina 
Sv/etebrede's  candid  blue  eyes,  and  knew  nothing  of 
what  may  have  tickled  his  hostess.  Tristram,  in  a 
few  minutes,  asked  to  be  shown  his  room.  "I've 
got  a  heap  of  letters  to  write,  and  some  to  read. 
May  I  ring?" 

In  the  pauses  of  the  party  strife,  when  the  cham- 
pions were  out  in  the  lists,  Mrs.  Germain  played 
lightly  upon  her  heart-strings,  plucking  chiefly  that 
chord  of  glamour  as  she  remembered  it  to  have  been. 
Duplessis,  who  noticed  everything  about  her  down 
to  the  smallest  detail — her  clothes,  her  neatly  cut 
shoes,  her  manner  with  servants,  with  Germain, 
with  the  roaring  public  of  the  hustings — thought  that 
she  carried  off  the  thing  very  v/ell.  Better,  no  doubt, 
in  his  absence;   but  still,  very  well.    She  was  shy  of 


MATTERS   OF   ELECTION  247 

him,  and  that  was  charming,  because  it  gave  her 
colour  and  sparkle;  she  was  quickly  on  her  dignity 
— and  that  was  touching.  She  seemed  to  court  his 
good  opinion,  to  dress  her  httle  window  wistfully. 
She  made  him  think  of  a  pullet  with  its  first  egg; 
still  more  touching,  by  Jove!  because  there  was  no 
egg,  and  little  likelihood  of  one.  And  how  careful 
she  was!  And  how  she  appealed!  *'Here  I  am," 
she  seemed  to  be  saying,  with  every  look,  ^^  trusted 
and  responsible,  but  oh,  so  safe!  Be  generous!" 
He  began  to  judge  her  again.  A  girl  of  her  sort,  she 
could  no  more  help  using  her  eyes  than  avoid  breath- 
ing through  her  nose.  With  every  darted  look,  with 
every  droop  of  the  lids  she  put  herself  at  his  discre- 
tion. Well,  she  needn't  be  afraid,  poor  little  soul. 
He  could  afford  to  be  generous  to  one  who  amused 
and  touched  him  at  once. 

Pity  is  a  heady  wine.  In  a  man  of  this  sort — your 
conqueror-by-instinct — it  inspires  magnanimity;  and 
the  worst  of  that  virtue  is — you  can't  be  truly  mag- 
nanimous until  you  have  reduced  the  object  of  your 
charity  to  destitution  and  misery.  Before  you  can 
lift  her  out  of  the  mire  you  must  see  her  in  it.  He 
may  have  been  tempted,  but  her  appealing  look 
tempered  his  rage.  Even  his  grudge  against  Ger- 
main was  less  sharp  than  it  had  been.  Germain! 
Germain,  and  this  love-lorn  little  creature  with  her 
peering  eyes!  Good  Heavens,  let  her  take  her  joy 
where  she  could. 

They  were  rarely  alone  together,  and  when  they 
were  she  was  extraordinarily  circumspect.     But  he 


248  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

was  master  of  inuendo,  and  knew  her  a  good  scholar. 
There  was  no  need  for  him  to  say  Heigho!  to  hear 
it  echo  from  her  breast.  And  the  less  he  said  the 
more  she  would  have  him  say,  he  fancied.  But  he 
was  wrong  there. 

He  said  to  her  once  before  he  left  Southover — ''I 
must  ask  you  this.    You  are  happy  ?" 

She  stiffened  instantly,  and  looked  steadily  in  front 
of  her — at  the  south  front  of  Southover,  it  so  hap- 
pened.   "I  am  very  happy." 

^'That's  good.    I  had  to  ask,  you  know." 

"Had  you?"  she  said  naively — and  then,  "I  won- 
der why?" 

"You  would  say  I  have  no  business  to  care?" 

She  faced  him.  "No,  I  shouldn't.  You  are  free 
to  do  as  you  like." 

"And  you — ?"  He  frowned.  "Aren't  you  free, 
too?" 

She  touched  the  flowers  in  her  breast,  looking  at 
them.  "Yes,  of  course,  I  am.  It  was  nice  of  you 
to  ask  me.    I  am  very  happy." 

A  cut  de  sac,  that  way.    Damn  it. 

Once,  at  dinner,  the  person  of  Jack  Senhouse 
came  up  for  debate.  Several  persons  present  had 
some  hand  in  the  game.  Mr.  Jess  and  Tristram 
tossed  the  name  about,  across  and  across.  Lady 
Barbara  Rewish  flicked  it  as  it  passed;  Mr.  Ger- 
main gave  it  a  sedate  lift  into  the  air.  When  it  came 
to  Mary,  she  let  it  drop.  Mr.  Senhouse  belonged  to 
her  innermost  self;  nobody  present  knew  that  she 
had  had  anything  to  do  with  him.     But  tw^o  things 


MATTERS   OF   ELECTION  249 

nearly  lost  her  her  self-possession.  One  was  to  hear 
her  friend  in  public  discussion — and  here  she  exulted 
in  her  secret.  The  other  was  Duplessis's  scorn  of 
him.    That  made  her  hot. 

"I  was  at  school  with  that  idiot,"  he  had  said, 
^'and  at  Cambridge.  He  was  always  a  waster — but 
he  used  to  comb  his  hair  in  those  days."  He  looked 
down  the  table  at  Mary;  the  shuttlecock  was  with 
her,  and  she  let  it  drop.    He  saw  her  do  it. 

Mr.  Germain  was  now  under  way,  and  gave  it  a 
lift.  "I  remember  that  Mr.  Senhouse  proposed  on 
one  occasion  to  sleep  near  my  coverts — too  near  to 
suit  the  views  of  Cradock,  however.  I  regretted 
what  followed." 

"What  did  follow?"  somebody  asked. 

"Well — I  regretted  it,"  said  Mr.  Germain,  closing 
his  eyes  for  a  moment.  "Mr.  Senhouse  accepted  my 
explanation  in  the  kindest  way.  I  must  confess  that 
I  took  no  particular  notice  of  his  hair,  save  to  ob- 
serve that  he  wore  it  uncovered." 

"He  wears  it  long,"  said  Tristram,  and  glanced 
at  Mary  Germain. 

"If  he  wears  it  uncovered,"  said  Mr.  Jess,  "he'll 
wear  it  longer  than  you,  my  young  friend." 

"He  may  wear  it  to  his  heels,"  Tristram  replied; 
"but  not  in  my  company."  Here  Mrs.  Germain 
gave  the  signal,  and  the  gentlemen  were  left  to 
politics. 

"That  idiot"  robbed  Tristram  of  some  chance  of 
magnanimity.  In  the  drawing-room  he  found  it 
out. 


250 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


*'You  know  Senhouse?"  he  asked  her.  She  had 
no  fear  of  him  now. 

^'  Quite  well.    He  is  a  friend  of  mine." 

^'Has  he  been  here?" 

^'I  think  not.    He  doesn't  like  big  houses." 

^'Oh,  he'd  come,  you  know.    He's  mighty  affable." 

"I  should  be  very  pleased  to  see  him.  I  like  him 
extremely." 

He  laughed.    *^He's  a  great  talker.    Always  was." 

*'He  talks  very  well,"  said  she,  ^'and  listens  very 
well." 

^'Personally,  he  leaves  me  speechless."  Here  Du- 
plessis  rose,  and  added  with  fatigue,  ^'But  I  see  we 
are  not  going  to  agree  about  Senhouse." 

She  looked  blankly  before  her.  *'No — obviously." 
Mr.  Germain  asked  her  to  sing,  and  she  obeyed  with 
alacrity.  She  sang  prettily,  but  not  well.  Ordinarily 
she  failed  in  attack;  but  under  Duplessis's  watching 
brows  it  seemed  that  some  new  spirit  had  entered 
into  her.    She  had  never  sung  better. 

The  election  came  and  was  made,  and  John 
Germain,  Esquire,  of  Southover  House,  triumphed 
over  Mr.  Leopold  Levitt.  The  very  next  day  the 
new  Secretary  of  State  (for  all  had  gone  well  with  the 
party)  made  his  farewells,  and  took  his  private  sec- 
retary with  him.  Tristram,  wanting  scope  for  mag- 
nanimity, had  been  morose  since  the  Senhouse  dis- 
cussion. 

She  thanked  him  lightly  " for  helping  us."  *' Us ! '^ 
to  Duplessis. 

But  he  gulped   it.     ''I   am  glad   to  have  been 


MATTERS   OF  ELECTION  251 

of  any  use.    You'll  be  in  town  for  the  session,  of 


course." 


^^I  suppose  so.    We  shall  hope  to  see  you." 
"Many  thanks.     You  are  not  supposed  to  see 
through  Secretaries  of  State — but  Jess  should  be  a 
good  medium.    So  it's  a  rivederci.^^ 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  "Good-bye — ."  But  he 
held  it  for  a  minute. 

"We  are  friends  again — after  this?" 
She  withdrew.  "Yes,  indeed.  Good-bye." 
Friends!  It  was  the  result  of  some  very  careful 
balancing,  and  an  odd  result,  that  if  Senhouse  lost 
nothing  in  her  regard,  Duplessis  lost  nothing  either. 
His  arrogance,  you  see,  was  so  entirely  in  character; 
and  it  is  satisfactory  to  a  woman  to  find  a  man  come 
out  true  to  type;  it's  assurance  of  strength  in  him. 
He  had  been  very  odious,  and  his  judgment  of  a 
better  man  was  laughable;  but  he  had  been  superb, 
all  the  same.  So  that  it  seemed  she  could  be  friendly 
with  the  pair  of  them. 

There  was  still  a  third  friend  to  reckon  with.  On 
the  day  of  the  departure  of  the  election  guests  Mr. 
Germ^ain  was  very  talkative  at  dinner,  and  drank 
more  wine  than  usual;  two  glasses  of  port,  for  in- 
stance. He  was  full  of  his  projects,  high  in  hope; 
you  could  detect  the  cheer  under  his  voice.  "Does 
my  Mary  see — ?"  or  "I  hope  my  dear  one  can  fol- 
low that  line  of  thought,"  or  "I  think  my  child  may 
be  satisfied  with  such  a  position  of  trust" — it  might 
be.  He  thanked  her  for  the  "loyal  help"  she  had 
given  him;   made  her  sit  with  him  after  dinner,  in- 


252  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

stead  of  sending  her  to  the  drawing-room;  held  her 
hand,  patted  or  stroked  it,  and  presently  fell  asleep, 
holding  it  still.  Finally,  when  it  was  bedtime,  he 
took  her  in  his  arms. 

She  submitted  to  his  embrace,  and  gave  him  the 
kisses  he  sought ;  but  no  more.  Presently  she  looked 
kindly  at  him,  with  a  certain  power  unknown  to  him 
before.  It  spelled  gentle  negation — pronounced 
with  extreme  gentleness,  but  not  to  be  mistaken. 
Then  she  kissed  him  of  her  own  accord,  disengaged 
herself,  and  went  away.  He  sat,  with  shaded  eyes, 
for  a  long  time  motionless,  but  not  asleep.  His  eye- 
brows were  arched  to  their  highest;  once  or  twice 
his  lips  moved;  he  seemed  to  be  crying  out  upon 
himself.  When  they  met  in  the  morning  it  was  as 
usual,  or  seemed  to  be  so.  But  his  dream  was  over 
for  good  and  all ;  and  he  had  muffled  himself  against 
the  cold. 


IV 

LONDON  NIGHTS   AND  DAYS 

We  are  to  see  her  now  spread  her  wings  for  Lon- 
don, and  butterfly  flights  about  the  flowers  and 
sweets  there.  Hill-street  affords  a  standard  by  which 
to  measure  her  growth.  That  decorous  house  in 
Hill-street  which  had  cowed  her  when  she  went  to  it 
on  trousseau-business,  and  had  driven  her  once,  fairly 
crying,  upon  the  mercies  of  Mrs.  James,  she  could 
now  find  small  and  dark.  She  thought  it  a  stuffy 
little  house,  and  wondered  how  many  the  table  would 
dine,  how  many  must  be  shut  out  of  the  drawing- 
rooms.  There's  a  famous  anecdote  of  Mrs.  James's, 
often  and  impressively  told  by  her,  which  comes  to 
mind  here. 

It  concerns  Gerald  Gunner,  *^  Laura  Gunner's 
second  boy,"  a  famous  gentleman-jockey,  and, 
though  his  years  were  few,  remarkably  a  rip. 
^'Charming  manners,  like  all  that  family,  but  most 
high-spirited,  wild,  they  say.  Bad  influences  were  at 
work,  no  doubt.  His  friends  were  loyalty  itseh; 
everything  was  hushed  up,  and  more  than  once. 
But — "  and  Mrs.  James  used  to  lower  her  voice — 

"there  was  a  fracas  at  Sandown.     Lord  Windle- 

253 


254  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

sham's  horse — they  say,  my  dear,  that  he  'pulled'  it. 
You  will  know  what  that  means,  I  dare  say.  I  be- 
lieve there  was  no  room  for  doubt.  Lord  Gunner — " 
that  was,  of  course,  the  old  lord,  father  of  our  recent 
acquaintance — "allowed  him  fifty  pounds  a  year,  so 
long  as  he  remained  in  Canada,  cutting  logs  or  build- 
ing railways — or  whatever  they  do  in  the  wilds ;  and 
the  poor  boy  went  out — in  the  steerage.  The  Heskeths, 
during  their  tour,  went  to  see  him  some  years  ago, 
and,  my  dear,  it  was  deplorable!  Miles  and  miles 
into  desert-swamps.  No  neighbours,  and,  of  course, 
no  church  privileges.  A  hovel,  literally  a  hovel, 
built  by  his  own  hands;  barely  weather-proof — not 
quite  that,  I  am  told,  in  one  corner.  They  arrived 
in  the  evening,  rather  late,  and  found  him  shelling 
peas  into  an  old  biscuit-tin.  His  Eton  birch  and  a 
portrait  of  the  Queen  were  absolutely  the  only  orna- 
ments; but  this,  to  my  mind,  is  deeply  pathetic. 
Would  you  believe  it?  That  poor  young  man 
dressed  for  dinner  every  night,  directly  he  had  cooked 
it.  It  got  cold,  and  his  jacket  was  in  holes — but  he 
never  omitted  it.  Mrs.  Hesketh  assured  me  that 
she  wept.  And  fifty  pounds  a  year!  Think  of  it. 
Of  course,  he  made  nothing.  Wh^t  could  he  make, 
with  his  training?'' 

It  is  a  sad  story.  Mrs.  John  Germain's  polite  edu- 
cation had  begun  later  than  Gerald  Gunner's;  but 
to  find  a  house  in  Hill-street  stuffy  is  symptomatic  of 
broadening  views. 

On  the  other  hand,  she  showed  the  hourgeoise 
undismayed  when  she  permitted  herself  to  be  ex- 


LONDON  NIGHTS  AND   DAYS  255 

cited.  She  was  all  agog  for  town  delights.  Lady 
Carhawk,  a  Berkshire  dame,  was  to  present  her,  and 
photographs  of  her  little  person,  stiff,  feathered  and 
bejewelled,  making  her  look,  as  some  wit  said,  like 
a  Spanish  Madonna  strayed  into  a  fair,  went  down 
to  Blackheath  with  promises  of  a  speedy  visit  in  full 
dress.  Cards  fluttered  daily  upon  the  hall-table. 
Mr.  Germain  engaged  a  second  secretary:  Mrs. 
Germain  began  to  think  of  one,  too. 

She  attacked  her  pleasures,  as  once  her  task-work, 
with  zest  and  spirit ;  she  made  scores  of  acquaintances. 
Lady  Carhawk  must  have  liked  her — herself  a  lik- 
able, florid  lady;  the  Duchess  of  Lanark  showed  that 
she  did;  Lady  Barbara  Rewish  and  others  of  the 
sort  found  their  old  hearts  touched  by  the  grateful, 
graceful  girl,  who  never  took  a  favour  without  show- 
ing that  she  was  much  obliged,  never  refused  one 
(and  that's  a  rare  abnegation),  and  if  she  asked  you 
to  do  anything  for  her,  coaxed  f(3r  it  with  bright  eyes 
and  wooing  lips.  The  Duchess  called  her  a  nice  little 
thing,  a  pretty  soul,  a  good  girl;  and  the  Duchess's 
third  son.  Lord  Vernon,  did  his  best  to  prove  how 
good  she  was — and  succeeded.  She  got  nothing  but 
good  out  of  that,  for  his  weaknesses  were  well  known. 

Much  of  this  little  success  she  owed  to  her  South- 
over  drilling,  which  had  taught  her  how  little  she  had 
to  fear,  how  little  was  expected  of  her  in  a  world 
where  chatter  is  the  staple,  and  high  spirits  a  matter 
of  good  taste.  Practically,  she  only  had  to  listen  and 
to  smile.  Now  she  looked  her  best  when  she  smiled 
— her  teeth  were  really  perfect.     As  for  listening, 


256  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

excitement  gave  her  colour  and  glitter,  her  gowns 
were  as  good  as  they  could  be — and  what  more  do 
you  want  but  the  wish  to  please?  That  she  had. 
She  courted  your  good  opinion,  was  anxious  to  be 
approved.  Besides,  she  could  be  patronized,  and 
liked  it. 

There  had  never  been  any  question  of  her  success 
with  the  men,  so  little,  indeed,  that  it  was  curious  to 
see  how  well  she  stood  with  the  women.  Her  early 
years,  it  has  been  hinted,  did  not  want  of  experience: 
she  proved  her  femininity  before  she  was  sixteen. 
And  betwixt  the  cubs  of  the  village  and  the  young 
lions  of  politics  is  no  difference  in  kind.  You  vary 
the  allure;  but  brown  eyes  are  still  brown,  and  ginger 
is  always  hot  in  the  mouth.  Of  these  splendid 
youths  Palmer  Lovell  must  perhaps  be  reckoned 
v/ith  first,  he  who,  for  her  sake  (or  so  it  is  said),  for- 
sook a  young  and  handsome  Viscountess.  After  a 
stormy  sowing  in  one  field  he  was  now  complacently 
reaping  in  another.  Mr.  Germain's  party  owned 
him  an  acquisition,  and  the  same  feeling  was  to  be 
expected  of  Mr.  Germain's  wife.  Lovell  constituted 
himself  her  Mentor,  waited  about  great  stairways  for 
her,  attached  himself  to  her  side,  and  sat  out  all  and 
sundry.  He  explained  himself  unaffectedly  as  a 
Hope  of  the  Party,  and  she  was  very  willing  to  be- 
lieve him.  But  somehow  the  information  did  not 
thrill  her  as  it  had  when  she  received  it  from  Tristram 
Duplessis;  with  the  rising  of  whose  light  above  the 
firmament  sank  the  orb  of  Mr.  Lovell. 

Horace    Wing — romantic    to    the    waist,    thence 


LONDON  NIGHTS   AND   DAYS  257 

downwards  dancing  master,  approved  himself  in  her 
eyes.  He  was  handsome,  affable,  an  artist  in  his  way. 
She  had  an  instinct  for  style;  and  he  had  that.  He 
knew  where  to  depart  from  the  tailor's  ideal,  which 
is  tightness;  he  knew  where  to  be  loose.  He  could 
unbutton  a  coat  to  better  purpose  than  any  man  liv- 
ing— or  a  phrase,  when  he  saw  his  way.  He  always 
coloured  his  phrases.  You  were  thought  to  hear 
birds  in  the  brake,  to  see  cowslips  adrift  in  a  pasture 
— happy  country  things — when  he  discoursed.  Some 
considered  his  flowers  forced,  things  of  the  hot-bed. 
But  he  was  discreet,  because  really  he  was  timid. 
The  Byron  of  the  Boudoir,  Lovell  called  him,  scorn- 
ing Mr.  Wing.  But  Mrs.  Germain,  who  knew  little 
to  Byron's  discredit,  and  understood  boudoirs  to  be 
made  for  two,  was  much  taken  with  this  fine  gentle- 
man. On  his  part,  he  found  her  attractive  because 
his  world  did.  He  was  acutely  sensitive  to  opinion, 
with  the  feelers  of  a  woman  for  it.  I  don't  mean  that 
he  knew  what  was  in  fashion — of  course  he  did ;  but 
that  he  could  detect  what  was  going  to  be.  There  he 
was  almost  infallible. 

There  were  others  about  her — it  was  quite  a  little 
triumph  in  its  way, — whom  to  name  would  be  tedious. 
But  one  was  a  very  great  man  indeed.  Robert  John 
Bernard,  Marquis  and  Earl  of  Kesteven,  a  Knight 
of  the  Garter,  and  an  Ambassador.  Lord  Kesteven 
was  no  less  than  sixty-odd  years  old,  had  a  Mar- 
chioness somewhere  and  three  mature  children,  and 
a  reputation  for  incisive  gallantry  second  to  no 
man's.    He  managed  his  affairs  of  the  kind  deliber- 


258  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

ately;  he  had  method.  When  he  died  it  was  said 
that  not  one  single  note  in  a  woman's  hand  was  to  be 
found  among  his  papers.  That  was  not  for  want  of 
hunting  for  them:  and  yet — well,  if  old  Kesteven 
looked  at  you  twice  you  were  worth  looking  at.  That 
was  said.  Now,  he  looked  at  Mrs.  Germain  more 
than  twice. 

With  these  tributes  at  her  feet,  with  such  heady 
incense  in  her  nostrils,  it  isn't  wonderful  if  she 
attended  the  coming  of  Duplessis  with  assurance  of 
amusement,  wondering  what  offerings  he  would 
bring.  Real  goddesses,  we  may  suppose,  take  their 
worship  as  of  right,  but  a  make-believe  goddess  dis- 
covers an  appetite  for  it  the  more  she  gets.  She  felt 
perfectly  ready  for  Tristram,  and  more  than  ready 
by  the  time  she  had  him.  It  seems  that  he  had 
thought  her  out — she  might  have  inferred  it  had  she 
not  been  piqued  by  delay — and  decided  that  he  must 
give  himself  value.  At  any  rate,  he  did  not  present 
himself  at  Hill-street  until  the  card  for  her  first  even- 
ing party  made  it  a  matter  of  duty.  Then  he  came, 
and  was  received  with  airy  smiles — as  if  he  had  been 
an  old  crony!  He  found  her  to  be  extremely  at  ease 
in  his  company,  was  disconcerted,  and  showed  it. 
He  had  come  as  one  prepared  to  be  fatigued ;  he  de- 
parted with  frowns  as  one  who  fears  that  he  has  been 
fatiguing.  ^^Good  God!'^  he  said  to  himself,  ^'she'll 
be  calling  me  Tristram  in  a  day  or  two."  He  re- 
flected that,  if  she  did  that,  he  was  done  for;  that 
would  show  that  he  had  ceased  to  strike  her  imag- 
ination, had  become  so  much  furniture,  a  sort  of 


LONDON  NIGHTS  AND   DAYS  259 

house-dog.  Deeply  mortified,  brooding  over  it,  he 
began  to  need  her.  His  self-esteem  sickened;  she 
only  could  restore  its  tone.  He  became  really 
alarmed  about  himself,  couldn't  work,  failed  of 
audacity,  missed  his  spring.  He  saw  her  again — he 
was  in  a  black  mood.  She  rallied  him  upon  it,  and 
sent  him  away  to  entertain  Lady  Barbara,  whose 
rights  no  man  dared  dispute. 

Lady  Barbara  accepted  him  as  a  target  for  some 
of  her  archery.  ^^I  saw  that  young  lady  married  to 
our  friend'' — and  she  nodded  towards  their  hostess. 
^'You,  I  fancy,  did  not.  A  most  hopeless  business 
I  thought.  I  remember  a  sister  with  fluffy  hair. 
Hopeless  it  would  have  been  if  she  had  been  clever — 
but,  thank  goodness,  she's  not.  She  has  just  sense 
enough  to  be  herself;  no  airs,  no  smirks  nothing  to 
hide.  She  told  old  Kesteven  all  about  herself,  I 
hear,  at  a  dinner-party ;  father,  mother,  sister  Jinny. 
Kesteven  was  charmed.  That's  a  sensible  girl,  you 
know,  not  a  clever  one,  who'd  spend  herself  in  schem- 
ing how  to  let  bygones  be  bygones.  On  the  con- 
trary, this  girl  hoards  them,  for  a  relish." 

Tristram  looked  very  glum.  Was  she  hoarding 
Mm  ?  For  a  relish  ?  The  old  archer  went  on  with 
her  practice. 

^'Look  at  her  now  with  Horace  Wing.  Horace  is 
weaving  his  gossamers;  he  thinks  she's  enmeshed. 
She's  not,  you  know;  she's  only  pleased.  I  tell  you, 
she's  exactly  what  she  always  was.  Once  upon  a 
time  Tom  Styles  Hook  notice'  of  her,  as  she  would 
say,  hung  about  the  church-door,  Sundays.    That 


26o  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

was  a  triumph  in  its  way.  Now  it's  Lovell,  or  Joce- 
l3ni  Gunner,  or  old  Kesteven.  I  don't  suppose  she 
has  ever  been  in  love  in  her  life — but  I  fancy  that  you 
can  correct  me  if  I  am  wrong." 

Duplessis  faced  about.  *^I?  I'm  afraid  I  can't 
help  you.  She  knew  my  people  in  the  country.  We 
were  rather  friendly;  we  liked  her.  I'm  glad  to 
think  that  you  do,  too." 

''She  amuses  me,"  said  Lady  Barbara,  ''and  I 
certainly  admire  her  honesty.  Horace  Wing  won't, 
I  think.  She'll  puzzle  him  with  her  gratitude.  Hor- 
ace wants  dearer  tributes.    All  you  young  men  do." 

Mr.  Germain  came  up  to  bow  over  his  friend's 
hand.  "I'm  talking  of  your  speech,  Germain,"  she 
told  him. 

Kindly,  I  know,"  said  he. 

You  were  rather  magisterial,  I  thought;  but  at 
least  you  knew  what  you  were  talking  about.  Tris- 
tram here  says  that's  not  necessary." 

Mr.  Germain  blinked.  He  never  looked  at  Tris- 
tram, and  did  not  know.  "Fortunate,  if  true,"  he 
said  coldly;  "but  I  cannot  myself  afford  to  believe 
it." 

"Ah,  Germain,  you're  too  rich,  you  see,"  Tristram 
said,  as  lightly  as  he  could,  and  withdrew  to  a  door- 
way, whence  he  could  see  Mary.  Lady  Barbara  in- 
quired, with  eyes  and  eyebrows,  to  no  purpose.  Mr. 
Germain  was  blandly  obtuse. 

"She's  charming,"  said  the  old  gentlewoman,  and 
caught  him  unawares.    He  started,  coloured. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  find  her  so — hourly." 


LONDON  NIGHTS   AND   DAYS  261 

'^Who  dresses  her?"  Mr.  Germain  raised  his  head. 

*^  Really — .  I  believe  there  are  consultations — . 
She  looks  well  to-night.    A  happy  nature,  my  friend." 

^Xharming,  charming,"  Lady  Barbara  mur- 
mured; and  then — with  a  look  from  the  door  to  her 
friend.  "What  is  he  doing  now?"  Mr.  Germain 
grew  alert. 

"Tristram?  He  goes  his  way,  I  believe.  He  was 
bickering  with  poor  Jess  the  other  day.  Jess  is  the 
soul  of  good-nature;  but  there  are  limits." 

"Plenty!"  cried  the  lady.  "There  should  be 
more.  He'll  be  in  the  House  by-and-by — a  thorn  in 
all  your  flesh." 

Mr.  Germain  repressed  himself.  "If  he  could  get 
a  seat.  Want  of  means  would  restrict  his  chances. 
I  fear  he  is  arrogant." 

"He's  able." 

"He  believes  it.  That  is  his  only  capital  sum,  I 
fancy.    But  I  am  not  in  his  confidence." 

"He   has   the   run   of  your  house?" 

Mr.  Germain  again  lifted  his  head.  "He  is  Con- 
stantia's  first  cousin.  My  wife  is  interested  in  him. 
She  has  known  him  for  some  years;  but  she  shares 
my  anxieties." 

Lady  Barbara  was  touched  by  his  gallantry,  but 
not  put  off.    "An  old  friend?"  she  persisted. 

"She  is  willing  to  beheve  him  so." 

Lady  Barbara  nodded  her  head.  She  was  a  stoic 
herself. 


LORD  GUNNER  ASCERTAINS  WHERE  WE  ARE 

George  Lord  Bramleigh,  roundest  and  youngest 
of  men  of  six-and-twenty,  overtaking  Jocelyn  Lord 
Gunner  in  St.  James's-street,  tipped  him  on  the 
shoulder  with  his  stick-handle.  Gunner  turned,  red 
in  the  face. 

*'Damn  you,  Bramleigh,  shut  up,"  he  said. 

*' Couldn't  shut  up  to  save  my  life,  old  chap,"  his 
friend  replied.  ''I'm  so  fit  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
with  myself.  Come  back  into  the  Fencing  Club  and 
make  passes  at  me." 

Gunner  growled,  ''See  you  shot  first,"  and  walked 
on.    Bramleigh  joined  him,  humming  an  air. 

"Look  here,"  said  Gunner,  after  a  time.  "D'you 
know  a  man  called  Duplessis?" 

"Rather,"  says  Lord  Bramleigh.    "Go  on." 

"That's  what  he's  doing,"  Lord  Gunner  mused. 
"His  goings-on  are  awful.  He'll  make  the  lady 
talked  about — and  she  don't  deserve  it." 

The  lady  must  be  named,  and  Lojd  Bramleigh 
whistled  at  her  name.  Reminiscences  of  a  morning 
at  San  Sebastian  came  upon  him,  but  were  withheld. 

Lord  Gunner  poured  out  his  grievances. 

262 


LORD   GUNNER  ASCERTAINS  263 

"I  don't  mind  a  chap  hanging  round — not  one  bit. 
If  I  wasn't  hanging  round  myself  a  good  lot  I  shouldn't 
see  it,  and  shouldn't  much  care  if  I  did.  There's 
nothing  in  that.  Besides,  there  are  plenty  of  ms. 
But  he  messes  about;  that's  what  I  can't  stand.  He 
messes  about.  And  he  seems  to  think  she  belongs 
to  him." 

^^  That's  the  way  to  make  her,"  said  the  sapient 
youth.    '^That's  his  little  plan." 

^' No,  it's  not,  my  boy,"  he  was  corrected.  ^^  You're 
off  the  line.  That's  what  he  really  thinks — and,  by 
God,  he  shows  it.  He's  like  a  dog  with  a  bone.  He 
snarls  and  turns  up  his  lip  the  moment  you  come  into 
the  place.  Or  if  he  comes  late  and  finds  any  one 
there — as  he  mostly  does — he  sulks.  'Pon  my  soul, 
I  hate  the  brute."  The  young  man  tilted  back  his 
hat,  and  looked  up  at  the  sky — a  pale  blue  sky,  irra- 
diated by  the  sun  and  by  the  burnished  copper  wires 
of  our  affairs.  "Where  are  we  now— end  of  April  ?— 
beginning  of  May?  She  came  to  town  in  February 
— and  here  we  are  in  May.  I  believe  he's  only  been 
away  from  the  house  for  three  days  on  end — and 
that's  just  now  when  he's  in  Paris." 

''You  ought  to  know,"  said  Bramleigh:  the  other 
snorted. 

''I  do  know.  He's  up  to  no  good,  that  chap,  I'll 
bet  you  he's  not.  He's  not  a  good  sort  with  women. 
I  happen  to  know.    Now — " 

''May  a  man  ask,"  Lord  Bramleigh  interjected, 
*'what  you  are  up  to?" 

Lord  Gunner  looked  down  at  him  in  surprise. 


264  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

*^0h,  you  may,  Bramleigh.  I  can  stand  it  from 
you.  I'm  all  right,  you  know;  I  wouldn't  hurt  her. 
She'd  have  a  pretty  stiff  time  of  it  with  old  Fowls-of- 
the-air  Germain*  if  it  wasn't  for  some  of  us,  who  go 
and  amuse  her.  She's  a  jolly  girl,  you  know,  and 
she  deserves  something." 

'^Dash  it  all,"  cried  Bramleigh,  *'she  got  some- 
thing when  she  married  old  Germain.  She  had  noth- 
ing at  all.  I'm  told  he  picked  her  up  in  a  nursery." 
Lord  Gunner  jerked  an  angry  head. 

^^Yes,  I  know,  I  know.  That  wasn't  the  game, 
I'll  be  shot.  Why,  any  one  could  have  done  it!  He 
played  the  God  in  the  Machine;  came  bouncing  out 
of  the  sky,  and  sent  the  servant  in  for  her.  '  Beg  par- 
don, miss,  but  here's  the  Archangel  Michael  come 
for  you.  Best  clothes,  please,  shut  your  eyes,  and 
you'll  be  married  to-morrow.'  That  was  the  way  it 
was  sprung  upon  her.  What  was  a  girl  to  do  but 
bless  her  stars,  and  say  she'd  be  with  him  directly? 
Well,  and  what  I  say  is.  If  old  Fowls-of-the-air  finds 
he  ain't  up  to  the  part,  he  can't  drop  it  and  leave  her 
in  the  lurch.  If  he  can't  make  himself  entertaining, 
he  must  be  helped." 

"That's  what  Duplessis  says,"  Lord  Bramleigh 
supposed.    But  Gunner  could  not  allow  it. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  He  says,  ^My  bread,  I  be- 
lieve.' He's  a  grabber.  The  mischief  of  it  is  that  I 
can't  say  anything." 

*The  poor  gentleman  must  have  been  more  than  usually  on 
stilts  when  he  made  the  speech  (on  poultry  farming)  which  earned 
him  this  sobriquet. 


LORD   GUNNER  ASCERTAINS  265 

''I  think  not,"  said  Bramleigh  tersely.  "But  I 
know  a  man  who  could.    Just  left  him." 

''Who's  your  friend,  Bramleigh?" 

Lord  Bramleigh  would  not  be  drawn.  ''Oh — 
man  you  wouldn't  know.  Not  your  sort.  But  the 
lady  knows  him." 

"Couldn't  you  give  him  a  hint?" 

"I  could,"  said  Bramleigh  with  deliberation.  "I 
could,  but" — he  looked  up  at  his  tall  friend — "but  if 
I  did,  I  shouldn't  leave  you  out,  old  chap." 

Lord  Gunner  halted  and  faced  him.  "You  may 
say  what  you  please  about  me.  I  don't  care  what 
you  say."  He  looked  over  to  Bond-street.  "That's 
my  road,"  he  said. 

"The  way  to  Hill-street?"  asked  Bramleigh. 

"The  way  to  Hill-street,"  he  was  told. 

Lord  Bramleigh  remained  upon  the  Piccadilly 
pavement  for  some  minutes,  lost  in  what  must  be 
described  as  thought.  His  lips  were  framed  for 
whistling,  but  no  sound  came.  His  eyes  stared  at 
nothing  in  particular.  Then  he  was  heard  to  say,  "I'll 
do  it,  by  Gad,"  and  seen  to  turn  on  his  heel.  He 
walked  down  the  hill  again,  the  way  he  had  come  up. 

Her  life  was  such  a  whirl,  it  may  well  be  that  she 
had  no  time  to  wonder  whither  she  was  flying.  At 
any  rate,  she  marked  neither  time  nor  direction,  nor 
was  aware  that  her  friends  were  remarking  on  both. 
If  you  had  checked  her  suddenly  with  the  question. 
Was  she  happy?  she  would  have  stared  before  she 
answered  you,  Of  course! 


266  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

From  day  to  day  she  hardly  saw  her  husband 
alone.  He  breakfasted,  as  of  old,  in  his  room;  his 
secretary  came  at  ten,  and  stayed  to  luncheon.  He 
had  a  nap  after  that,  and  went  down  to  the  House  at 
four.  He  might  return  to  dinner,  he  might  join  her 
at  a  party  in  time  to  take  her  home ;  but  by  then  he 
would  be  so  tired  that  he  would  drop  asleep  in  the 
carriage.  She  may  have  known,  or  she  may  not,  that 
his  eyes  were  often  upon  her,  intensely  observant  of 
her  gaiety  and  appreciative  of  her  good  manners; 
she  can  hardly  have  known  that  she  was  seldom  out 
of  his  thoughts.  It  must  be  confessed  that  he  was 
not  more  than  a  perfunctory  guest  in  hers :  she  wore 
his  name  in  her  prayers  as  she  wore  it  abroad — in 
that  world  of  his  to  which  he  had  enlarged  her, 
where  she  now  fluttered  her  happy  wings.  She  paid 
him,  in  fact,  the  service  of  lip  and  eye  which  we  pay 
to  God  in  church.  He  was,  no  doubt,  the  Author  of 
her  being.  ^'My  husband  says'' — ^^My  husband 
thinks — " :  she  never  used  such  a  phrase  without  the 
little  reverential  hush  in  her  voice,  or  without  a  mo- 
mentary curtsey  of  the  eyelids.  When  he  showed 
himself  in  a  room  she  went  instantly  to  his  side; 
when  he  was  present  at  a  dinner- table  her  tones  were 
lower,  her  laughter  less  infectious.  He  was  Disposer 
Supreme :  he  was  secure  of  that  dignified  but  remote 
office.  It  was  one  which  he  was  well  qualified  to  fill ; 
and  it  was,  unfortunately  for  him,  the  only  one  about 
her  person  which  was  then  at  his  service.  Nobody 
knew  this  better  than  the  poor  Stoic  himself,  nobody 
knew  it  less  than  the  engrossed  little  lady. 


LORD   GUNNER  ASCERTAINS  267 

It  was  not  until  the  end  of  April,  or,  as  Lord 
Gunner  had  ascertained  it,  the  beginning  of  May 
that  she  became  aware  of  the  fact  that  she  had  been 
seeing  Duplessis  every  day  since  the  short  Easter 
recess.  It  was  forced  upon  her  notice  by  this  other, 
that  for  those  days  he  was  absent,  and  that  she  missed 
the  homage  of  his  knit  brows.  They  were  more  to 
her,  she  found,  than  Horace  Wing's  postures  or 
Palmer  Lovell's  placid  contemplation  of  her  charms. 
Yet  each  of  these  rising  statesmen  was  much  more 
her  servant  than  Tristram  could  care  to  be.  Lovell 
used  to  advise  her  about  her  gowns:  it  had  got  to 
that.  His  aunt.  Lady  Paynswick,  had  a  shop — so 
that  it  was  reasonable.  Mr.  Wing  took  each  new 
apparition  of  her  as  an  occasion  for  poetry — surface 
poetry,  so  to  speak,  which  a  more  experienced  sub- 
ject might  have  found  pert ;  but  it  sounded  very  well 
at  the  time.  Duplessis  did  none  of  these  things, 
neither  saw,  nor  admired:  he  simply  frowned.  But 
she  liked  to  be  frowned  at  in  that  sort  of  way — she 
had  always  liked  it.  It  meant,  ^^You  sting  me.  I 
have  no  rest.  You  could  cure  my  scowls,  but  you 
won't.  I  detest  you,  because  I  love  you."  It  was  a 
tribute,  implied  power — and  how  could  she  help 
liking  that  ?  One  of  the  great  joys  of  power  is  that 
you  can  sit  back  at  your  ease,  twiddle  your  thumbs 
and  say  to  yourself,  "An  I  would,  I  could — !"  You 
must  needs  feel  charitable  to  him  who  puts  you  in 
the  way  of  that. 

After  his  three  days'  truantry,  when  he  returned 
to  her  side,  she  showed  him  that  she  was  glad  to  see 


268  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

him.  Generous,  but  mistaken:  it  made  him  Grosser 
than  ever.  He  could  be  abominably  rude  when  he 
chose — and  he  chose  to  be  so  now.  She  was  at  the 
Opera,  alone  in  her  box.  He  came  in  after  the  first 
act,  nodded  and  sat  down.  This  she  forgave,  even 
to  the  extent  of  offering  her  hand.  ^'You've  been  away 
— it  is  nice  of  you  to  come.    I'm  all  alone,  you  see.'' 

He  said,  one  must  go  somewhere.  She  laughed 
that  off.  What  had  been  the  favoured  country  ?  He 
named  Paris,  as  if  it  hurt  him  horribly.  Paris!  She 
had  been  there  once — on  her  way  home  from  Ma- 
drid. Some  day  she  must  be  taken  there  again.  It 
had  been  extraordinary — had  seemed  like  walking 
on  light.  Duplessis  said  that  it  hadn't  been  like  that 
at  all,  but  like  walking  in  smells  among  a  leering 
populace.  All  this  was  far  from  gay;  but  she  was 
very  good-tempered. 

It  would  seem  that  he  had  come  there  to  quarrel 
with  her;  for  that  is  what  he  did.  After  an  act  and 
an  interval  of  monosyllabic  answers,  spells  of  brood- 
ing, moustache-gnawing,  and  other  symptoms  of  the 
devil,  she  roundly  asked  him  what  ailed  him.  He 
affected  blank  astonishment.  Ailed  him?  Ailed? 
What  on  earth  should  ail  him  ? 

''Then,"  said  she,  with  colour,  ''I  think  you 
might  be  civil."  He  stared,  and  met  a  pair  of 
stormy  eyes. 

''Am  I  to  understand — ?"  he  began. 

"You  are  to  understand,"  she  told  him,  "that  you 
are  making  me  very  uncomfortable.  I  have  done 
you  no  harm." 


LORD   GUNNER  ASCERTAINS  269 

Her  ancestry,  you  see,  must  peep  out.  She  was 
preparing  a  scene — and  what  can  one  do  then  ? 

^'Is  that  a  hint?"  he  asked  her.  She  turned  to 
the  stage. 

^'You  drive  me  to  it,"  she  said.  ^'You  have  been 
very  rude."    He  rose. 

"I  can  spare  you  that,  at  any  rate,"  he  said, 
opened  his  hat  with  a  clatter,  bowed  and  left  her. 
Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  fast,  and  faster,  as  the 
clouds  gathered  and  swept  across  her  eyes.  Hateful 
man — but  what  had  she  done  ?  A  tyrant :  he  bullied 
women.  She  felt  very  lonely ;  the  great  house  seemed 
to  grow  dark,  the  great  music  to  howl  and  bray. 
Palmer  Lovell  came  in  presently,  after  him  came 
Gunner;  but  she  could  get  no  joy  out  of  them,  and 
waited  on  miserably  for  her  husband.  She  found 
herself  praying  for  him,  who  at  least  would  be  gentle 
with  her.  He  was  late,  however,  and  she  could  bear 
no  more.    She  left  after  the  third  act. 

In  her  brougham  she  had  a  vision — it  could  have 
been  nothing  else.  At  the  corner  of  Endell-street, 
under  a  gas-lamp  and  in  the  full  light  of  it,  she  saw 
a  tall  man  standing.  He  was  reading  a  newspaper, 
and  had  no  hat  on  his  head.  Her  heart  jumped — 
oh,  that  could  be  but  one  person  in  the  world!  Her 
friend!    Senhouse  in  London! 

The  detestable  Tristram  was  forgotten;  Palmer 
Lovell,  the  mellifluous  Wing  went  down,  soused  in 
Cornish  seas.  Cornish  seas,  sluiced  rocks,  green 
downs,  birds  adrift  in  the  wind,  opened  out  across 
the  yellow  flare  of  a  London  night.    She  went  wide- 


270  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

awake  to  bed,  and  lay  sleeplessly  there.  The  very 
next  afternoon,  as  she  was  coming  out  of  a  great 
shop  in  Regent-street,  crossing  the  pavement  to  get 
into  her  carriage,  she  almost  ran  into  his  arms. 


VI 

SENHOUSE  ON  THE  MORAL  LAW 

She  could  have  jumped  into  them.  ''You!''  she 
cried.  ''Then  it  wasn't  a  dream  at  all.  I  saw  you 
last  night — near  the  Opera." 

He  teased  her  with  his  wry  smile.  "And  I  saw 
you  last  night  at  the  Opera." 

"You  were  there!    Oh " 

"I  was  in  the  gallery.  I  left  because,  much  as  I 
love  Wagner,  I  love  air  more.    I  suffocated." 

"Oh,  but  you  might  have  come  to  see  me,"  she 
said,  with  a  pout  not  at  all  provocative — a  pout  of 
sincere  regret.  "It  was  quite  cool  down  there.  In 
fact" — she  laughed  at  a  memory — "it  was  very  cool 
indeed.    Too  cool." 

"I  don't  follow  you,"  said  Senhouse. 

"You  needn't.  Perhaps  I'll  tell  you" — she  looked 
doubtfully  at  him,  pondering.  "I  should  like  to  tell 
you  lots  of  things.  Oh,  heaps!  Everything — from 
the  beginning.  I'm  married,  you  know."  He  nodded 
gravely. 

"I  can  see  that  you  are.    All  well ?" 

This  made  her  think.  "Rather  well.  But  we 
must  talk — it's  obvious.    Will  you — ?"    She  looked 

at  the  carriage  and  the  footman  at  the  door  of  it. 

271 


272  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"If  that's  your  carnage — no,  I  won't,  thanks. 
Have  you  walked  five  yards  to-day?  No?  Then 
we'll  walk  somewhere  and  have  it  out.  You  might 
send  that  sepulchre  away.  I'll  see  you  home." 
Her  eyes  shone. 

"I  should  love  it.  It  shall  go."  She  told  the  foot- 
man her  intentions,  and  sailed  happily  away  in  con- 
voy with  that  tall,  loosely  clad  young  man  who,  to 
the  footman's  concern,  carried  his  hat  in  his  hand. 
"Blooming  Italian  feller — airing  his  'ead  of  'air,"  he 
told  the  preoccupied  Musters,  who  said,  "Tlk! 
Tlk!"  to  his  horses. 

She,  too,  remarked  it.  ' '  Why,  you  have  got  a  hat ! ' ' 
He  held  it  up. 

"Yes,  indeed — and  I'll  wear  it  if  you  insist  upon 
it." 

"But  I  don't,"  she  told  him.  "I  shouldn't  know 
you  if  you  did." 

He  led  her  at  a  brisk  pace — to  meet  his  long  strides 
she  had  to  break  into  a  run  now  and  again.  But  she 
was  prouder  of  his  company  than  of  any  she  had  had 
yet,  and  caught  herself  humming  airs  by  the  way. 
There  was  indeed  heaps  to  say.  She  plunged  into 
her  stored  reminiscences  as  a  boy  into  a  pool — went 
in  deep  and  rose  shaking  her  head,  breasting  the 
flood. 

"I  must  tell  you — I  believe  I  saw  you  on  my 
wedding  day!  From  the  train — just  a  glimpse. 
I  saw  the  Ghost  plodding  along — Bingo  running  in 
the  grass — you  were  sitting  on  the  tilt,  smoking,  of 
course.    You  were  in  white.    Were  you  there?    It 


SENHOUSE   ON  THE  MORAL  LAW         273 

must  have  been  you.  We  had  passed  Swindon,  I 
know — it  was  before  we  got  to  Bath.  You  were 
going  West,  and  so  was  I — so  were  we,  I  mean.  I 
wondered  if  we  should  meet  out  there — Exeter? 
Were  you  there?  Oh — and  I  mustn't  forget.  It  is 
the  most  important  of  all.  He — my  husband — took 
me  to  the  Land's  End." 

He  looked  down  quickly  at  her.  '^When  were 
you  there?" 

"  In  October.  It  was  about  the  middle  of  October. 
Do  you  mean  to  say ?" 

"I  was  there  in  November,"  said  Senhouse,  "and 
stayed  till  February — there  or  thereabouts.  I  am 
always  there  for  the  winter.    I  have  business  there." 

She  had  put  her  hand  to  her  side.  Her  eyes 
spelled  ecstatic  conviction.  "I  knew  it — I  felt  it. 
How  wonderful!" 

"What's  your  wonder,  my  friend?" 

"Why,  that  I  should  have  seen  you  there!" 

"But  you  didn't." 

"Ah,  but  I  did.  That's  just  it.  I  was  certain  you 
were  there — I  expected  to  find  you  in  every  hollow 
of  the  rocks.  The  place  told  me  of  you — it  seemed 
to  bear  your  mark.  If  I  were  an  animal  I  should  say 
that  I  could  smell  you  there." 

He  was  amused.  "You're  not  far  wrong.  I  was 
thereabouts.  You  might  have  smelt  some  of  my 
deeds — Flowers — I  grow  'em  on  those  cliffs.  You 
might  have  seen  'em." 

Her  eyes  were  roundly  open  now — wonderfully — 
but  she  shook  her  head. 


2  74  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

''No,  no.  I  saw  nothing  of  the  sort.  Do  you 
mean — gardens?" 

''Sort  of  gardens.  I  work  those  rocks.  I  plant 
things — they  are  natural  rock  gardens,  those  boulders. 
I  started  it  some  six  or  seven  years  ago — naturalizing 
alpines.  IVe  got  some  good  saxifrages  to  do  there — 
androsaces  of  sorts — drabas,  campanulas,  colum- 
bines. Then  I  began  on  hybridizing — that  last  in- 
firmity. There's  a  scarlet  thrift  I'm  trying — fine 
colour.  It  don't  always  come  true  yet,  but  it's  a 
pretty  thing — Armeria  Senhusiana,  if  you  please." 

Now  she  was  inclined  to  be  serious,  with  a  con- 
fession to  make.  Hertha  de  Speyne  had  told  her 
something  of  all  this,  and  given  her  an  interest  in  it. 
Mischief  prevailed ;  she  sparkled  as  she  probed  him. 

"I  don't  quite  understand.  You  have  a  rock  gar- 
den— you!  I  have  remembered  your  scorn  of  prop- 
erty— of  owning  anything — and — !  Really,  I  am 
rather  shocked.    A  garden  of  yours!" 

He  looked  blandly  interested.  *'Mine?  Bless 
you,  no.  I  haven't  got  a  garden  for  these  things.  I 
grow  'em  out  there  on  the  rocks.  They're  anybody's 
— yours,  Tom's,  Harry's.  I'm  only  the  gardener. 
And  you  prove  to  me  that  I  know  my  business,  be- 
cause you  must  have  been  through  my  nursery  half 
a  dozen  times — and  saw  nothing  of  it." 

"Nothing  at  all,  I  promise  you."  Her  share  in 
his  little  triumph  was  manifest,  she  was  intensely 
pleased.  "That's  lovely,"  she  said— and  then, 
"You  know,  if  I  had  caught  you  out — I  should  have 
been  awfully  disappointed." 


SENHOUSE   ON  THE   MORAL  LAW         275 

"I  hope  I  shall  never  disappoint  you,  ma'am,"  he 
told  her.  ''No.  If  I  owned  all  that  I  don't  think  I 
should  care  for  it.  I  esteem  those  things  down  there 
for  taking  their  chance.  Tourists  hardly  ever  hurt 
them.  It's  the  wet  that  does  most  harm;  the  winter 
wet — sluicing  mists,  rotting  rains — "  She  touched 
his  arm — nearly  stopped  the  walk. 

*'I  can't  keep  it  up,"  she  said.  "I  have  tried,  but 
it's  not  to  be  done.  I  knew,  afterwards,  that  you 
did  these  things.  Hertha  de  Speyne  told  me.  Are 
you  angry?" 

He  looked  closely  at  her — not  at  all  angrily. 

"You  talked  me  over  with  her,  did  you?"  She 
blushed. 

''Among  other  people.  I  know  that  you  were 
with  the  Cantacutes  the  sunmier  before  last." 
Then,  with  a  sudden  memory,  she  stopped  again, 
almost  took  his  arm. 

"Did  you  see — do  you  know  a  white  cottage — 
right  up  on  the  chff?    A  green  roof?" 

His  eyes  twinkled.  "Rats'  Castle!  Rather.  It 
has  sheltered  me  more  nights  than  one." 

Her  lips  pressed  together  as  she  nodded  her  head. 
"I  might  have  known  that.  I  beg  your  pardon." 
Thinking  of  what  she  was  to  speak,  presently  she 
told  him  in  a  grave  voice  that  she  intended  to  live  in 
that  cottage — "before  I  die." 

He  took  that  calmly.    "You  might  do  worse." 

He  had  come  to  London,  he  said,  to  supply  his 
needs — to  sell  some  pictures  in  Cranboume-street, 
and  to  see  some  books.    His  library  was  in  Blooms- 


276  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

bury;  she  gathered,  the  British  Museum.  He' 
wanted  ''Aristophanes,"  the  ''Arabian  Nights."  He 
had  nearly  everything  else.  Narrow  inquiry  revealed 
his  tastes.  He  owned  two  books.  ^'Don  Quixote" 
was  one,  "MangnalPs  Questions"  the  other.  No — 
Bible?  No.  ^'Don  Quixote"  was  better  than  the 
Bible,  because  it  was  our  own.  We  were  not  Orien- 
tals— at  least  not  now.  Everything  that  a  man 
could  need  for  his  moral  and  spiritual  supplies  was 
in  "Don  Quixote" — religion,  poetry,  gorgeous  laugh- 
ter, good  store  of  courage,  wisdom,  fortitude.  Mang- 
nall  was  enough  for  the  rest.  Old-fashioned,  per- 
haps: but  then  he,  Senhouse,  was  old-fashioned. 
"I  always  read  "Don  Quixote"  before  I  say  my 
prayers." 

They  were  by  now  in  Hyde  Park,  beyond  the 
carriage  road,  nearly  alone  with  the  trees  and  grass 
and  certain  sooty  sheep  which  cropped  there.  He 
found  her  a  chair,  but  himself  sat  on  the  ground  and 
clasped  his  knees.  She  must  hear  his  views  upon  the 
Bible;  but  she  had  to  press  for  them.  No,  no,  he 
told  her  at  first — it  wasn't  his  business  to  preach. 
Presently,  however,  he  broke  out.  "You're  just  a 
counter  in  a  game  at  this  hour — put  up  between  the 
dressmaker  and  the  policeman.  You  are  property — 
and  that's  the  Bible's  doing.  Why — why — look  at 
the  Ten  Commandments — 'His  wife,  servant,  maid, 
ox,  ass — everything  that  is  his!'  You  come  after  his 
house,  if  you  remember;  you  come  with  the  flocks 
and  herds — there  you  are,  even  now — and  there  you 
must  be  until  the  system  breaks  down.    Your  jealous 


SENHOUSE   ON  THE  MORAL  LAW         277 

God,  your  jealous  husband — don't  you  see  that 
they're  one  and  the  same?  The  pohceman  and  the 
dressmaker;  the  duena  and  the  eunuch  of  the  door. 
Oh,  good  Lord!  That's  Oriental,  you  know,  Turk's 
dehght.  You  won't  find  that  in  ^Don  Quixote' — a 
sane,  Latin  book ;  but  it's  in  half  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment. Saint  Paul!  Women  must  cover  their  heads 
in  church.  Why  ?  I'll  tell  you :  the  yashmak!  The 
harem  is  not  to  be  seen — shameful.  .  .  . 

^^The  Catholics  are  right.  They  keep  the  Bible 
for  the  learned.  They  know  it  won't  do.  If  the  Ital- 
ians, for  instance,  the  most  practical,  clear-headed 
people  in  Europe,  were  to  get  familiar  with  the 
Bible,  the  Pope  might  have  his  throat  cut.  There'd 
be  a  revolution.  ... 

^^  That's  only  one  point  out  of  a  thousand,  but  it's 
a  good  one.  It  concerns  the  welfare  of  more  than 
half  mankind,  and  its  relation  with  the  other  fraction. 
If  men  are  to  buy  and  hoard  women,  it's  quite  clear 
that  women  mayn't  have  souls  of  their  own.  .  .  .  The 
whole  social  system  depends  upon  their  having  none. 
You  are  property  my  friend — marketed  by  the 
dressmaker,  safeguarded  by  the  policeman.  It  is 
really  too  degrading.  It  degrades  the  man  more 
than  the  woman ;  makes  him  a  kind  of  stock-keeper, 
the  most  atrocious  form  of  capitalist  there  can  be. 
The  Bible,  of  course,  did  not  establish  that — the 
system's  as  old  as  Hell ;  no,  but  it  sanctioned  it  once 
and  for  all.  Ever  since  that  Levantine  sophist  saw 
^big  business'  in  Christianity,  and  ran  it  in  Europe, 
the  only  hope  of  religion  has  been  in  what  lurked  of 


278  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

paganism — lurked  in  the  uplands  of  Tuscany,  in  the 
German  forests  and  Irish  swamps.  ... 

"Religion  is  a  habit  of  mind — not  a  taught  thing. 
We  are  all  religious  in  a  thunderstorm.  But  we  don't 
get  it  out  of  the  Decalogue.  We  are  all  religious  when 
we  are  in  love ;  laws  of  property  are  forgotten — men 
and  women  are  themselves.  The  accursed  part  of 
the  system  is  this,  that  they  can't  be  themselves  from 
the  beginning.  You  must  learn  the  rules  before  you 
can  break  them.  Now  if  there  were  no  rules  at  all 
there  would  be  no  rebels.    I  hope  that's  clear." 

She  listened  with  head  gently  inclined  and  pon- 
dering eyes,  partly  amused,  partly  disturbed  by  his 
vehemence,  but  not  scandalized,  because  it  was  so 
like  him,  and  because  he  was  he.  Womanlike,  how- 
ever, she  must  reduce  his  theories  to  practice,  apply 
his  rules,  bring  them  home,  or  near  home.  Women, 
he  had  said,  were  property — well,  was  she  her  hus- 
band's property  ?  Bought  ?  Marketed  by  the  dress- 
maker? What  did  that  mean,  exactly?  When,  with 
a  grunt,  he  stopped  his  harangue,  she  tried  to  formu- 
late her  speculations. 

"I  believe  that  I  see  what  you  mean  about  rules — 
keeping  and  breaking.  It's  all  very  puzzling. 
f  Women  are  put  wrong  with  men  from  the  very  be- 
ginning— I  see  that  now.  What  did  you  mean 
about  'being  themselves?'  Have  I  ever  been  my- 
self?" 

He  laughed,  staring  at  the  ground.    ''Never." 

"Well,  but— how  am  I  to  begin?" 

"Go  your  own  way.    Defy  the  dressmaker.'* 


SENHOUSE   ON  THE  MORAL  LAW         279 

She  leaned  forward,  her  elbows  on  her  knees. 
*'Do  tell  me  what  you  mean  about  the  dressmaker." 

He  stared  at  the  ground  again.  ^'I  don't  know 
that  I  can  get  much  nearer.  She  teaches  you  to — to 
set  snares — to  lead  the  eyes — I  don't  think  we  can 
talk  about  it." 

^'What  am  I  to  do?"  She  asked  him  that  in  a 
tone  so  serious  that  he  knew  she  must  be  answered. 

*'Ah,"  he  said,  ^'I  can't  help  you,  you  know. 
You  must  fudge  it  out  as  best  you  can.  I'm  dread- 
fully sorry — but  that's  the  truth.  You  might  come 
to  a  pass  where  I  could  be  of  use — I  hope  you  won't 
— there's  no  reason  to  suppose  it.    Meantime " 

"He's  kindness  itself,"  she  said,  looking  beyond 
him.  "He  was  kind  from  the  very  beginning — but 
— I  know  that  I  ought  not  to  have  married  him." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Senhouse,  "he  ought  not  to  have 
asked  you." 

Her  eyes  fell.    "No,"  she  said,  "perhaps  not." 

After  a  pause  of  some  intensity  on  her  part,  she 
broke  out.  "What  you  tell  me  of  yourself  fills  me — 
makes  me  excited.  It's  glorious.  You  stand  on 
your  feet — you  are  free  as  the  air — owe  nothing — • 
while  I — what  am  I  ?  Not  even  myself.  The  dress- 
maker made  me — the  policeman  guards  me.  My 
husband — but  if  I  had  no  husband,  what  could  I  do? 
Belong  to  somebody  else?    If  I  broke  a  rule " 

He  stopped  her  with  a  gesture — a  quick  jerk  of 
the  head.    She  met  his  eyes. 

"The  pity  will  be  if  you  break  a  rule  without  get- 
ting full  value  for  the  escapade.    Don't  do  that." 


28o  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

''I  wasn't  thinking — I  didn't  mean  you  to  think — " 
He  had  frightened  her;  she  was  quite  breathless. 

''You  must  understand,"  he  said,  "that,  in  my 
view,  you  are  no  wiser  to  put  your  body  in  a  cage 
than  your  mind.  Both  must  be  free.  Don't  make 
the  mistake  of  thinking  that  a  woman  who  breaks 
our  law  of  property  in  one  way  is  worse  than  the 
shop  thief  who  breaks  it  in  another.  To  wound  the 
feelings  of  a  good  and  generous  man  is  a  serious  thing 
— but  not  to  take  bread  when  you  are  starving.  At 
least,  that  is  how  I  look  at  it.  But — you  must  be 
very  sure  you  are  starving.  Sincerity  is  the  supreme 
virtue,  and  insincerity  the  only  deadly  sin." 

She  nursed  her  cheek,  while  dreams  showed  them- 
selves in  her  grave  eyes.  Whether  she  was  ponder- 
ing what  he  said  or  no,  there's  no  doubt  she  was  giving 
it  personal  application  again.  Tristram  was  in  her 
mind — her  morose,  exclusive  lover.  Was  her  friend 
giving  a  benediction  to  Tristram's  plain  desires? 
What  was  she  to  do  then  ?  Was  she  to  be  possessed 
by  Tristram — at  last?  Sincerity,  he  said,  was  all. 
Was  she  sincere?  Could  she  ask — dared  she?  She 
knew  that  what  he  told  her  she  should  believe — Yes ; 
and  she  juggled.  She  did  not  want  to  know  what 
he  would  say — because  she  knew  it  already.  Blame 
her  as  you  will — that's  the  fact. 

Very  woman  that  she  was,  she  went  about  and 
about  the  thing  she  dared  not — peering  for  the 
assurance  of  her  fears.  She  looked  softly  at  him  as 
he  sat  there,  plucking  the  grass  by  handfuls  or  mak- 
ing mounts  of  torn  plantains — she  looked  wistfully. 


SENHOUSE   ON  THE  MORAL  LAW         281 

**You   are  my  friend   then — whatever  happens  to 
me?" 

He  met  her  melting  eyes  candidly.  *^  Depend 
upon  me." 

''Ah,"  she  said,  ''but  I  do!  Well,  then,  I  must  do 
what  seems  to  me  best — I  must  be  brave."  He 
smiled. 

"Have  your  adventures,  of  course.  Don't  be 
afraid  of  them.  Be  true  to  yourself,  though — at 
every  cost." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  promise  you  that.  .  .  .  When  shall 
I  see  you  again?" 

He  gazed  blankly  at  the  sky.  "I  don't  know, 
really.  I'm  a  wanderer,  you  know.  But  the  Land's 
End  finds  me  from  November  to  February  mostly. 
I  begin  to  work  West  about  October.  I  am  due  in 
the  North  now — in  the  Lakes.  Wast  water  will  find 
me — somewhere  thereabouts.  I  shall  be  there  till 
September.  I  leave  London  to-night — no,  to-mor- 
row— "  Their  eyes  met  again,  without  embarrass- 
ment. He  was  the  only  man  she  could  have  com- 
merce with  in  this  way.  "I  shall  see  you  at  Land's 
End  some  day  or  other,"  she  told  him.  "When  I'm 
wounded " 

"Caught  in  a  wire  by  the  foot,"  he  laughed.  "All 
right — I'll  set  you  free." 

"But  suppose  you  were  in  Berkshire  when  I  was 
there — How  should  I  know  that  you  were  there? 
Would  you  call  at  Southover?" 

He  laughed.  "No,  indeed  I  shouldn't.  I'm  a 
hedgerow  chap.    I  move  by  night  mostly." 


282  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"Well,  but — you  might  be  within  a  mile  of  me, 
and  I  should  never  know  it." 

'^Yes,  you  would,  of  course,"  he  said,  simply. 
"You'd  know  by  the  trail." 

"What  trail?" 

"Don't  you  know  that?  I'll  show  you.  Old  Bor- 
row calls  it  the  patteran,  and  swears  he  got  it  from  a 
gipsy  girl  called  Ursula.  You  needn't  believe  him; 
I  don't.  But  the  trail  is  certain.  A  woman  who  lived 
in  a  cave  at  Granada  showed  it  to  me.  Look  here." 
He  plucked  up  a  handful  of  grass.  "Here's  a  four- 
went  way" — he  marked  it  with  his  finger  in  the  dust. 
"Now  watch" — he  scattered  the  grass,  which  took, 
roughly,  the  form  of  a  curved  pointer.  "You  see 
that  on  a  road — it  means  the  way  I  am  gone.  But  I 
do  mine  with  leaves,  when  leaves  there  are — with 
leaves  from  the  sunny  side  of  a  hedgerow.  You  can 
always  tell  them."  Her  brows  inquired — she  was 
intensely  interested.  "Dunce,  they  are  bigger  of 
course,  and  darker.  I  use  them  because  the  gipsies, 
who  are  everywhere,  use  leaves,  too,  but  never  take 
the  trouble  to  select  them.  Now  you'll  always  know 
w)' trail  by  that.    Do  you  see?" 

She  clasped  her  hands  together — her  eyes  danced. 
"How  splendid!  How  glorious!  Then  we  have  a 
language.  I  can  find  you  whenever  I  want  you.  For 
if  I  wanted  you  very  badly,  I  could  set  a  patteran  for 
you,  couldn't  I?"  He  nodded.  She  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "You  don't  know  how  strong  you  have  made 
me — you  can  never  know.  Thank  you  a  thousand 
times." 


SENHOUSE   ON  THE  MORAL  LAW         283 

"Not  a  bit,"  he  said,  lightly.  "If  we're  friends, 
you  are  entitled  to  know  my  little  games." 

"And  may  I  speak  to  you  like  that — when  I  go 
anywhere?" 

"Do.    We  share." 

She  sighed.    "How  can  I  ever  thank  you!" 

The  sun  was  low  when  she  got  up,  saying  that  she 
must  go  home.  It  was  discovered  to  be  seven  o'clock. 
Why,  she  cried,  they  had  forgotten  to  have  any  teal" 

"  Poor  girl !    Will  you  have  some  now  ?  " 

"No,  no.  I  don't  want  it.  But  I  must  go.  Will 
you  come  with  me?    Or  are  you  engaged?" 

"You  know  I'm  never  engaged.  I  shall  come 
with  you,  of  course.    Will  you  drive?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  that's  too  quick.  Let's 
walk  over  the  grass.    It's  no  distance." 

She  talked  to  him  of  her  friends — of  all  her  friends 
but  Duplessis.  This  he  observed.  Did  he  know 
Mr.  Horace  Wing  ?  By  repute  only,  it  seemed.  He 
could  be  seen  in  photograph  shops — a  very  "pretty 
fellow";-  too  pretty.  Palmer  Lovell?  Unlicked,  he 
judged.  Then  he  tried  her.  "I  know  young  Bram- 
leigh,"  he  said  with  one  of  his  straight  looks  into  the 
deep  of  you.    "I  met  him  yesterday." 

She  received  the  shock  unfaltering.  "Lord  Bram- 
leigh?  I  hardly  know  him."  He  had  failed.  Lord 
Kesteven — for  she  went  on  blandly  with  her  list — he 
had  never  heard  of.  He  asked  "What  he  did?"  and 
made  her  open  her  eyes.  "Do!"  she  said,  with  a 
comical  air  of  being  shocked.  "He's  a  Marquis." 
Tills  made  Senhouse  perfectly  happy,  but  he  apolo- 


284  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

gized  for  laughing.  ^'I've  nothing  against  him,  you 
know.  I  believe  it's  an  honest  calling.  Does  he  do 
nothing  else  but  be  a  kind  marquis  to  you  ?" 

She  affected  scorn.  ''He's  an  Ambassador — in 
Paris.    I  hope  that's  honest  enough  for  you." 

"I  hope  so,  too,"  said  Senhouse,  ''but  I'd  rather 
be  a  marquis.    Is  he  your  friend  ?" 

"He  says  so.  I  think  he  means  to  be."  All  of  a 
sudden  she  leaned  towards  him ;  he  felt  her  urgency. 
"You  are  my  friend.  I  have  no  others.  You  have 
promised  me  your  friendship." 

"You  have  it,  my  dear,"  said  Senhouse.  They 
walked  the  rest  of  the  way  in  silence ;  but  he  stopped 
once,  and  interested  her  again.  It  was  in  Mount- 
street — of  all  places.  He  stopped  short,  as  if  he  was 
listening;  his  head  high,  eyes  closed.  He  was  sensing 
the  air,  listening  to  it,  smelling  it.  Narrow  Mount- 
street  took  the  semblance  of  a  forest  path,  brambled, 
dusty,  hemmed  with  bracken  fronds  and  silvered 
roots.  "There's  rain — there's  rain,"  he  said — "I 
can  hear  it  coming.  May  be  a  day  off,  but  it's  on 
the  way."  She  watched  him  incredulous.  "Are  you 
a  magician?  What  are  you?"  He  laughed.  "I've 
got  feelers,  that's  all." 

At  the  door  in  Hill-street  he  left  her.  She  was  in- 
clined to  be  tremulous,  tender — but  he  was  completely 
cheerful.  He  would  have  gone  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand  had  she  not  held  out  her  own.  As  it  was,  she 
had  prepared  a  little  formal  speech — "I  cannot  tell 
you  how  glad  I  am  that  we  met — I " 

"Don't  try  to  tell  me,"  he  said.    "I  know  it.    One 


SENHOUSE   ON  THE  MORAL  LAW         285 

takes  that  for  granted — among  friends,  you  know. 
That's  the  privilege  of  the  estate." 

*^Yes,  yes — of  course.  Well,  I  won't  thank  you 
for  doing  what  pleases  you.  I  am  sure  that  it  has 
pleased  you."    She  fished  for  an  answer. 

"Take  it  for  granted,"  he  repeated. 

That  braced  her.  "I  will.  I  do.  Good-bye." 
This  time  he  did  wave  his  hand. 

"Mr.  Duplessis  have  called,  Madame,"  said  Grea- 
torex  at  the  door.  "He  have  left  a  parcel.  Lord 
Kesteven  have  called — and  Mr.  Wing." 

The  parcel — discreetly  phrased — proved  to  be 
most  palpably  a  truss  of  roses.  She  unfastened  it 
herself,  and  found  a  slip  of  paper  pinned  to  the  stalk 
of  one.  "Forgive,"  was  written  on  it.  Smiling 
wisely,  she  went  upstairs  to  dress,  her  bouquet  in  her 
hand. 


VII 

SHE  GLOSSES  THE  TEXT 

Had  Duplessis,  flowers  in  hand,  sued  his  forgive- 
ness at  any  time,  she  was  not  the  woman  to  be  stem. 
That  was  not  in  her;  she  was  at  once  too  sensitive 
to  the  flattery  of  the  prayer,  and  too  generous  to  re- 
fuse it.  But  at  this  particular  time  she  felt  very 
strong;  fresh  from  communion  with  her  friend,  se- 
cure in  him,  she  felt  equal  to  judging  a  dozen  Tristrams 
— and  to  judging  them  leniently.  "They  know  not 
what  they  do."  That  was  why  she  had  smiled  so 
wisely  to  herself  on  her  way  upstairs;  and  it  may 
have  been  why  she  wore  some  of  his  flowers  in  the 
waistband  of  her  gown  that  night.  It  was  one  of  her 
most  charming  gowns,  too;  mouse-coloured  tulle. 
In  the  belt  of  this  she  set  crimson  roses,  of  Tristram's 
offering. 

She  dined  out,  and  went  on  to  a  party.  Duplessis 
was  waiting  for  her  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs;  they 
went  up  together.  He  had  never  yet  taken  possession 
of  her  in  that  manner,  and  cannot  be  excused  of 
brutality.  But  he  was  quick  to  presume;  was  not  at 
all  a  good  object  for  generosity.  Her  eyes  had  an- 
swered his  inquiry — ''Forgiven?"  before  he  touched 

286 


SHE   GLOSSES   THE  TEXT  287 

her  hand;  she  had  said  ''Of  course,"  and  the  rest 
followed  as  a  matter  of  course.  He  assumed  from  it 
his  right  to  be  offensive,  and  her  privilege  to  be  un- 
off ended.  She  went  upstairs  by  his  side,  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned,  possessed  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
— under  his  protection.  She  did  not  know  it  then  or 
even  feel  it;  her  lightness  of  heart  buoyed  her  up. 
Had  she  not  been  encouraged  in  adventure? 

By  the  time  they  were  well  past  their  hostess  at  the 
door  Tristram  had  resumed  this  air  of  the  vaguely 
irritated  lion.  He  looked  grandly  about  him  over 
heads — his  height  gave  him  pretence. 

"What  are  we  to  do  here — ?  All  these  people — a 
wilderness  of  monkeys — "  When  a  young  man, 
sure  of  welcome,  liad  come  up  on  toe-tips  to  shake 
hands  with  Mrs.  Germain — had  bowed,  prattled, 
bowed  and  gone,  Duplessis  showed  more  than  fa- 
tigue. He  had  seen  his  crimson  flowers  at  her  belt, 
and  they  bretrayed  him.  ''I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
Let's  go  and  sit  down  somewhere.  It  can't  be  here." 
He  spoke  shortly,  as  if  he  meant  it. 

She  took  his  arm  without  question,  and  he  pushed 
a  way  through  a  couple  of  full  rooms.  Beyond  these 
was  a  little  boudoir,  beyond  that  a  library,  empty. 
She  sat,  and  he  stood  fidgeting  with  reviews  on  the 
table,  taking  up  and  throwing  aside  like  a  child  sick 
of  toys.  And  she  sat  softly  there  with  cast-down  eyes, 
waiting  until  he  chose  to  remember  her. 

She  was  very  conscious  of  his  mood,  and  not  un- 
satisfied with  it.  The  whole  thing  was  a  game,  an 
adventure,  say,  and  this  a  recognized  move  in  it. 


288  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"Have  your  adventures — don't  shirk  them.  Sin- 
cerity is  the  great  matter.  Be  yourself  whatever  hap- 
pens." He  had  been  plucking  up  the  grass  at  her  feet 
as  he  told  her  that,  and  she  had  not  been  able  to  see 
his  face,  though  she  had  tried.  He  spoke  deliber- 
ately, as  if  he  was  screwing  the  words  out  one  by  one 
- — as  if  they  ought  to  be  said,  cost  him  what  they 
might  to  say.  Had  they  cost  him  anything?  Ah,  if 
she  could  have  known  that! 

But — ''Be  yourself  whatever  happens!"  Had  she 
a  self  ?  What  was  it  ?  Was  it  that  of  a  young  woman 
who — of  one  of  those  women  who  like  to  be  coveted, 
are  ready  to  be  owned,  who  indeed  always  are  owned 
by  one  or  another?  ''His  servant  or  his  maid,  his  ox 
or  his  ass — "  Must  she  be  property,  personal  prop- 
erty? Ah,  but  let  her  never  forget  that,  such  as  she 
W£LS,  Jack  Senhouse  was  to  be  her  friend — always — 
at  the  call  of  her  need.  Then  she  remembered  the 
patter  an  ^  and  smiled  to  herself. 

Presently  she  looked  up  at  Tristram,  scowling 
over  the  Deux  Mondes.  "What  are  you  going  to  do 
with  me,  now  I  am  here?"  she  asked  him  lightly; 
whereupon  he  turned  short,  and  sat  down  near  her. 

"What  can  I  do  with  you?  What's  possible? 
What  am  I  allowed  to  say?  I  feel  like  a  caged  cat. 
Am  I  to  pay  you  compliments,  ask  you  if  all's  well  ? 
Has  it  come  to  that  ?  I  know  what  you  would  say  if 
I  did.    You  are  not  happy.    It's  evident." 

It  was  only  in  this  man's  company  that  she  failed 
of  self-possession.  With  men  far  greater  than  he, 
such  as  Kesteven;  with  men  defter  than  he,  men  of 


SHE   GLOSSES   THE  TEXT  289 

the  Wing  vein,  she  could,  as  it  were,  hold  the  reins, 
and  feel  the  mouth.  With  Duplessis  she  was  always 
liable  to  strike  back  upon  former  days.  At  any  mo- 
ment, had  he  but  known  it,  he  could  have  put  her,  so 
to  speak,  into  a  white  muslin  frock,  turned  her  into 
the  fluttered  village  coquette.  Oddly  enough,  with 
all  his  wits,  he  had  never  known  it  until  this  moment ; 
he  had  always  read  her  new  position  into  her  old 
ways.  But  now  it  was  too  plain  to  mistake ;  he  had 
but  to  lift  his  hand  and — !  The  discovery  ran  through 
his  veins  like  a  strong  wind — to  make  him  shiver. 

She  was  looking  down  at  her  hands  in  her  lap, 
picking  up  her  fan  plumes  one  by  one,  and  running 
them  between  her  fingers.  A  latent  trembling  pos- 
sessed her,  which  he  felt  rather  than  saw.  The  same 
fever  caught  him. 

"Where's    Germain?"      He    spoke    masterfully. 

Her  reply  was  studiously  simple.  "He'll  come  for 
me  by-and-by.    He's  at  the  Speaker's  dinner." 

"He's  always  somewhere  else."  Mischief  prompt- 
ed her  to  ask  if  he  complained  of  that;  but  he  was 
not  to  be  drawn. 

"If  you  were  my  wife,"  he  told  her,  "I  should 
never  leave  your  side.  If  you  were  my  wife,  I  should 
be  your  lover  always." 

Here  was  a  lie,  obvious  even  to  her;  but  the  devout 
imagination  in  it  was  enough  to  thrill  her.  Watching 
her  closely,  he  saw  that  she  was  thrilled. 

"You're  not  happy,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  not 
happy.  You  made  a  frightful  mistake — but  mine 
was  worse." 


290  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

It  was  hardly  the  moment  to  assure  him  that  he 
was  quite  wrong.  If  a  gentleman  does  you  the  honour 
to  discern  misery,  even  where  none  exists,  it  proves 
attention,  at  least,  to  your  circumstances.  It's  an 
oblique  compliment. 

She  said  gravely,  "I  don't  think  we  ought  to  talk 
about  such  things.  I  have  never  given  you  any  rea- 
son to  think  me  dissatisfied  with " 

''Oh,"  he  broke  in,  "we're  not  considering  the 
creature  comforts,  I  imagine.  You  came  here  in  a 
carriage  from  your  big  house — and  you'll  go  back  to 
a  big  house  in  your  carriage.  I  can  understand  that 
these  are  pleasant  arrangements;  and  after  two 
years  of  them,  for  what  they  are  worth,  you  may  well 
confuse  them  with  the  real  thing.  But  that — !  A 
full  cup,  nodding  at  the  brim!  Life  together!  No 
world,  nobody  in  the  world  but  two  souls — ours! 
And  work:  work  together!  Good  God,  it's  ghastly 
to  think  of." 

He  looked  haggard,  and  there  was  a  hollow  ring  in 
his  voice,  the  hoarseness  of  a  consumptive.  Her 
heart  went  out  to  him  in  pity,  and  her  hand  was  laid 
for  a  moment  on  his  sleeve.  "You  are  not  well — you 
work  too  hard.    Please  don't." 

"Work!"  he  said,  "I  have  none.  I  wish  I  had, 
I've  quarrelled  with  Jess." 

"I  know.  I'm  very  sorry.  I  wish  that  we — that 
I " 

He  suddenly  and  squarely  faced  her.  "Look  here, 
Molly,"  he  said,  and  made  her  heart  beat  and  her 
eyes  quail.    He,  and  he  only,  had  called  her  Molly. 


SHE   GLOSSES   THE  TEXT  291 

'^You  know  what's  the  matter.  There  has  hardly 
been  a  day  since  you've  been  in  town  that  I  haven't 
seen  you — I've  found  out  where  you  were  to  be — and 
I've  been,  too.  You  possess  my  mind;  I  think  of 
nothing  else,  can't  sleep  for  thinking.  I  believed  that 
I  should  get  over  it,  and  perhaps  I  should  if  I  hadn't 
seen  you  again  last  autumn.  There  was  the  mischief. 
I  vow  to  you  I  didn't  want  to  come,  shouldn't  have 
come  if  Jess  hadn't  insisted.  A  confounded  ass — ! 
It  all  began  again  then — and  now,  I  tell  you  fairly  I 
shan't  get  over  it.  I'm  not  going  to  try.  It's  stronger 
than  I.  .  .  .  And  I  believe  that  you  care,  too.  I  do 
believe  that,  I  know  you  do.  You  wouldn't  sit  there 
so  still  if  you  didn't — you  wouldn't  hide  your  eyes  if 
you  didn't.  You  dare  not  show  me  how  bright  they 
are.  Ah,  but  I  know  how  bright  they  can  be,  and 
what  makes  them  shine!  No,  no,  3^ou  and  I  be- 
long  " 

''Oh,  don't,  don't — please  don't!"  The  cry  was 
wrung  from  her,  and  the  courage  to  look  at  him 
came.  But  then,  as  she  turned  her  head  away,  she 
said  faintly,  "You  mustn't,"  and  made  things  ten 
times  worse. 

His  next  words  beat  her  back.  ''I  love  you,  do 
you  hear?  I  adore  you — I  care  for  nobody,  no  rights 
or  claims  in  the  world;  I  can't  live  without  you.  If 
you  won't  listen  to  me,  if  you  drive  me  too  hard,  I 
shall —  No,  no,  that's  wicked.  Molly,  I'll  do  you 
no  harm,  I  swear  to  that.  But  you  and  I  have  got  to 
be  together,  or  I  shall  go  mad.  Now  you  know  it 
all." 


292 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


She  rose,  and  he  with  her.  Both  were  shaking; 
but  she  spoke  first. 

"Let  me  go  now,  please — take  me  back.  I  mustn't 
be  found  here."    He  was  ready. 

''I'll  take  you  away,  now.  I'm  glad  I've  had  it 
out  with  you.    Now  you  know  the  facts  at  least." 

She  put  her  face  in  her  hands.  "It's  dreadful. 
I  ought  not  to  have  listened  to  you.  It  was  very 
wrong.    What  are  we  to  do?" 

"Love  each  other  dearly,"  said  Tristram,  and 
took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  She  shuddered 
and  shut  her  eyes,  but  did  not  try  to  move.  Her  lips 
were  parted;  there  came  a  long  sigh.  "My  darling, 
my  darling  girl,"  he  said,  and  kissed  her  again. 
They  heard  steps,  and  sprang  apart.  Her  terror  was 
manifest.  "Come,"  he  said,  "we  must  get  out  of 
this." 

She  took  his  arm — she  looked  as  sleek  as  a  stroked 
dove.  They  went  into  the  rooms  without  another 
word.  She  was  almost  at  once  confronted  with 
people  whom  she  knew,  and  Duplessis  left  her  with 
the  first  group  she  encountered.  She  saw  him  shoul- 
der his  way  through,  nodding  to  right  and  left  in  his 
grand,  careless  way;  she  saw  him  go  out  and  knew 
that  he  would  not  come  back.  Engaged  in  the  chat- 
ter usual  to  such  times,  she  talked  at  random,  laughed 
without  knowing  what  amused  her.  When  she  was 
told  that  Mr.  Germain  had  been  seen — was  here 
looking  for  her,  she  gathered  her  wits  at  once  and 
went  to  find  him. 

He  was  talking  in  his  calm,  superior  way  to  a  great 


SHE   GLOSSES  THE  TEXT  293 

lady.  His  Court  dress  suited  him — he  looked  like 
his  ancestor,  Sir  William,  pictured  in  the  dining- 
room  at  Southover. 

The  great  lady  put  up  her  glasses  and  smiled  at 
Mary.  "Here  comes  that  pretty  person  you've 
given  us.  How  d'ye  do,  my  dear.  What's  the 
secret  of  your  bright  eyes?  Late  hours  agree  with 
you,  it's  plain;  but  this  poor  man  of  yours  wants 
care." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  she,  thankful  of  the  turn-off. 

Mr.  Germain  made  her  a  bow.  "If  you  have 
come  to  take  me  away,  my  dear,  I  shall  not  deny 
you  the  pleasure.  The  whole  duty  of  a  wife  in  the 
season  is  to  take  her  husband  from  parties.  Am  I 
not  right,  Duchess?" 

"My  dear  man,"  said  she,  "I  don't  pretend  to 
such  privileges.  My  husband  has  been  in  bed  these 
two  hours.  Good-night,  you  happy  pair.  Now,  my 
dear,  when  will  you  come  to  me?  The  20th,  of 
course — my  ball.  I  trust  you  for  that.  But  do  come 
in  to  luncheon — positively  any  day  except  to-morrow 
and  Thursday — oh,  and  Saturday.  Saturday  is 
hopeless."  She  tapped  Mary's  cheek  with  her  fan — 
"What  a  dawn  colour!" — and  smiled  herself  on- 
wards, fat,  satiny,  and  benevolent.  The  Germains 
gained  their  carriage,  and  he  was  asleep  before  they 
were  in  Carlos-place.  She  sat  absorbed,  gazing  out 
of  the  window,  still  under  the  spell  of  Tristram's 
love-making.  She  went  to  bed — lay  wide-eyed  in  the 
dark  for  a  while;  then  sighed  deeply,  and  smiled, 
and  slept.     Her  last  waking  thought  was  sophis- 


294  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

tical.  *'He  told  me  to  have  adventures — and  to  be 
myself.  And  he's  my  friend,  whatever  happens." 
Entrenched  behind  her  philosopher,  she  had  no 
dreams. 


VIII 

ADVENTURE  CROWDS  ADVENTURE 

Odd  thing!  The  rain  nosed  out  by  the  man  of 
weather  came  to  pass.  But  it  delayed  for  a  week  or 
more,  which  was  time  enough  for  many  other  proph- 
ecies to  be  fulfilled.  When,  however,  it  did  come  it 
struck  her  imagination.  She  awoke  late  from  a  night 
of  deep  sleep  to  hear  it  thudding  on  roof  and  balcony 
and  to  see,  when  she  looked  out,  the  heavy  trees  of 
Berkeley-square  streaming  like  waterweed  under 
a  sluice.  Here  and  there  a  cruising  hansom  thrashed 
a  way  through,  now  and  again  a  milk-cart.  The 
butcher-boys  wore  their  baskets  on  their  heads.  Her 
first  conscious  thought  was  of  Senhouse,  bare- 
crested  to  the  wild  weather.  It  would  be  wild  in  the 
open,  and,  of  course,  he  was  in  the  open.  On  some 
wide  common,  perhaps,  facing  the  gale,  with  the 
rolling  collar  of  his  jersey  flacking  like  ship's  cord- 
age. Ah,  to  be  there  with  him,  sharing  the  joy  of 
battle ! 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  suddenly  leaving  the.  whole- 
some, great  air  for  that  of  a  hot-house  that  she  turned 
to  her  breakfast  tray  and  pile  of  letters.  She  picked 
up  the  first  of  them;   the  hand  was  Tristram's.    A 

295 


296  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

letter  from  him,  and  a  visit,  were  now  daily  events. 
A  letter  to  him,  also,  must  be  written  daily,  and 
somehow  delivered. 

This  one  was  cavalier  in  tone.  ^^ Sweetheart, — 
I  must  see  you,  if  only  to  arrange  how  best  we  may 
meet.  What  a  storm  last  night!  But  what  a  clear 
blue  promise  before  us!  I  shall  be  in  the  Burlington 
Arcade — Gardens  end — at  noon.    Come.       ^'Tr." 

Even  she,  never  yet  free  from  her  early  subjection 
to  him,  felt  that  this  was  not  how  lovers  write  to  their 
sovereign  ladies.  An  assignation — and  in  such  a 
place — proposed  to  Mrs.  Germain!  She  coloured 
high  and  clear.  He  had  done  what  she  could  never 
have  believed  possible;  he  had  really  offended  her. 
Nothing  in  the  whole  world  could  have  persuaded 
her  to  go. 

But  by-and-by  that  sophistry  which  is  ever  at 
hand  to  clinch  a  woman's  argument  the  way  she 
wants  it  to  travel,  modified  her  view,  suggested  a 
duty.  Insolent,  arrogant,  exorbitant  lover  that  he 
was,  he  must  be  taught  his  place.  He  should  see  her 
inaccessible;  he  should  see  her  cold  profile  as  she 
drove  by  him  without  so  much  as  a  turn  of  the  head. 
Perhaps  then  he  would  know  that  she  was  not  a  vil- 
lage girl  at  his  disposal.  Perhaps.  Thus,  at  least, 
she  reasoned — and  thus  she  did.  The  brougham  was 
ordered  for  a  quarter  to  twelve — she  kept  it  fifteen 
minutes,  and  then  gave  the  order,  ^^Bank."  Her 
bank  was  that  of  England,  and  stands  in  Burlington 
Gardens. 

She  had  no  real  errand  there,  but  she  feigned  one. 


ADVENTURE   CROWDS   ADVENTURE        297 

A  cheque  was  to  be  cashed.  The  footman  was  to 
take  it — and  even  as  she  gave  it  him  she  saw  Tristram 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Arcade — in  an  overcoat  to  his 
ankles,  his  wet  umbrella  in  his  hand. 

She  sat  rigid  in  her  place,  wide-eyed  for  events.' 
While  looking  at  Musters' s  careful  back  it  was  per- 
fectly possible  to  see  her  lover  at  his  post.  He  was 
watching  her  intently,  she  knew;  but  he  did  not 
move.  He  did  not  intend  to  go  a  step  out  of  his 
way  to  meet  her.  True,  he  had  walked  to  the 
Arcade — he,  who  lived  in  the  Albany!  A  most  cav- 
alier lover,  this. 

The  game  went  on  .  .  .  the  minutes  passed.  The 
footman  came  back  with  her  money  and  waited  for 
orders.  She  named  a  shop — a  jeweller's  close  by,  in 
Vigo-street.  Jinny  Middleham  was  to  be  married, 
to  a  Mr.  Podmore,  a  clergyman,  and  must  have  a 
present.  How  happily  things  turned  out;  the 
cheque  would  serve.  The  touch  of  Musters's  whip 
caused  the  hoofs  to  clatter  on  the  asphalt;  the 
brougham  lunged  forward  and  swept  her  by  the 
shameful  trysting-place.  She  peered  sideways  as 
she  passed ;  Duplessis,  looking  full  upon  her,  did  not 
even  lift  his  hat.  Nor,  during  the  hour  she  spent, 
fingering  enamels,  rivieres,  and  rings,  did  he  appear 
at  the  shop-door.  When  she  went  by  the  Arcade  on 
her  return  he  was  not  there.  She  felt  strongly  the 
sensation  of  escape,  and  was  surprised  to  be  so  free 
from  disappointment.  Senhouse  came  back  to  his 
own  place  in  her  thoughts — he  and  the  wind  on  the 
heath.    Both  good  things. 


298  HALFWAY   HOUSE 

But  in  the  afternoon,  at  about  six  o'clock,  her 
cavalier  was  ushered  into  her  drawing-room,  where 
she  sat  alone,  and  stood  by  the  door  looking  at  her 
until  the  man  had  gone  out.  Then  he  crossed  the 
room  quickly,  came  straight  to  her,  knelt,  took  both 
her  hands  and  kissed  them. 

He  humbled  himself.  She  hardly  knew  him  for 
the  same  man.  And  he  did  the  thing  handsomely, 
too,  named  himself  grievous  things,  exalted  her, 
wouldn't  hear  of  any  excuse.  Her  generosity,  easily 
moved,  was  all  on  his  side  in  a  few  minutes.  She 
could  not  hear  him  accuse  himself.  Perhaps  he  had 
been  thoughtless;  but  she  had  had  no  right,  she  said, 
to  be  so  angry. 

Finally,  she  wouldn't  listen.  ^'If  you  go  on  talking 
so  wildly,"  she  told  him,  ''I  shall  begin  to  think  you 
don't  mean  it."    And  then  he  did  explain. 

It  appeared  that  there  had  been  reason  in  what  he 
had  proposed.  A  certain  delicacy  taught  him  that 
he  could  not  continue  calling  at  the  house  after  what 
had  happened.  That  could  hardly  fail  to  appease 
her.  His  seeming  insult,  then,  had  really  been  in- 
tensely prompted  by  his  fear  of  insulting  her.  She 
considered  this  with  hanging  head. 

''Mind  you,  Molly,"  he  went  on,  being  master  of 
her  hand,  ''I  can't  withdraw  one  word  of  what  was 
forced  out  of  me  that  night;  I  can't  wish  undone  one 
single  act.  I  adore  you,  and  I  must  tell  you  so;  I 
love  you,  and  must  show  my  love."  Here  he 
kissed  her.  ''The  question  is,  how  and  when 
am  I   to   see  you.     See  you  I  must  and  will.     I 


ADVENTURE   CROWDS   ADVENTURE        299 

wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  that — and  how  was 
I  to  do  it  ?  Would  you  have  had  me  ask  you  to 
my  rooms?" 

It  did  occur  to  her  here  that  a  better  place  could 
have  been  found,  since  they  met  most  nights  in  the 
week  in  somebody's  house;  but  she  put  the  cavil  by 
as  unworthy.  Since  he  was  in  her  husband's  house, 
however,  not  disturbed  unduly  by  the  delicacy  which 
had  troubled  him  overnight,  it  would  be  as  well  to 
hear  what  he  suggested. 

''I'm  not  going  to  be  unreasonable,"  he  told  her; 
*'I  shall  settle  down  presently,  and  things  will  jog 
along,  no  doubt,  for  a  bit.  But  at  this  moment,  when 
I  have  just  won  you — after  two  years,  Molly,  after 
two  years — I  must  have  you  more  or  less  alone  for  a 
few  days.    Upon  my  soul,  I  think  you  owe  me  that." 

He  made  her  feel  that  she  really  did ;  but  he  fright- 
ened her,  too.  She  looked  quickly  into  his  face, 
where  he  knelt  gazing  at  hers.  ''You  must  tell  me 
what  you  mean,"  she  said.  "I  don't  understand. 
Alone  ?   For  a  few  days  ?    That  is  surely  impossible." 

He  explained  with  eagerness.  "Of  course,  of 
course!  Don't,  for  God's  sake,  misunderstand.  I 
would  not  ask  you  to  do  anything  which  would  cause 
you  discomfort.  Heaven  forbid.  I  said,  'more  or 
less  alone.'  Isn't  that  plain  enough?  If  I  can't  see 
you  here,  it  can  only  be  at  some  of  these  infernal 
crowds  we  all  flock  to — and  how  can  we  be  sure  of  a 
moment  there?  Look  here,  my  dearest,  think  of 
this  plan.  I  should  like  you  to  go  and  stay  with  your 
people  for  a  bit." 


300 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


That  did  sound  feasible.  Her  quick  mind  jumped 
after  Kis  instantly.  ^^My  people?''  she  said,  won- 
dering. "Yes,  I  should  love  to  see  them  all  again. 
Jinny,  my  sister,  is  going  to  be  married.  I  should 
have  gone  for  that  in  any  event.  Yes,  of  course,  I 
could  go  there  if " 

He  poured  out  his  plans.  She  should  go  to  Black- 
heath  at  once,  and  he  would  take  her  down,  leave  her 
at  the  door.  He  should  take  rooms  in  Greenwich: 
there  was  an  hotel  there,  not  bad  at  all.  You  looked 
over  the  river;  the  shipping  was  magnificent.  Every 
day  he  would  meet  her  somewhere — they  would 
both  be  unknown.  Every  day  they  would  spend 
together:  Greenwich  Park,  the  river;  they  could 
sail  to  the  Nore,  round  the  Mouse.  It  would  be 
Heaven,  he  said.  And  then  he  pleaded — his  love,  his 
miser}'-,  his  longing.  "Without  you  I'm  a  lost  soul, 
Mary;  if  I'm  worth  saving,  come  and  save  me.  In 
the  sight  of  Heaven  you  were  mine  on  the  day  I  kissed 
you  first.  Do  you  remember  when  that  was  ?  How 
long  ago  ?  Do  you  think  I  have  forgotten  it  ?  Never, 
never.  That  kiss  sealed  you  mine — mine  for  ever. 
And  what  am  I  asking  of  you  now?  A  few  days' 
human  companionship — a  sop  which  you  are  to 
throw  to  a  starving  man.  Haven't  you  charity 
enough  for  that  ?  Ah,  but  I  see  that  you  have — you 
can't  hide  it  from  me."    She  could  not. 

He  went  on  from  strength  to  strength.  "I  save  the 
proprieties  by  this  plan;  I  secure  you  absolutely 
from  prying  eyes  and  profane  tongues.  You  will 
have  your  people,  your  mother,  to  fall  back  upon  if 


ADVENTURE  CROWDS  ADVENTURE   301 

I  could  be — if  you  could  fear  me  scoundrel  enough — 
My  beloved!  I  wrong  you  to  name  such  a  thought. 
You  may  disapprove  of  me — you  may  be  hurt — God 
forgive  me !  by  things  that  I  say,  do,  look.  They  are 
things  v/rung  from  me  by  this  throttling  passion — for 
three  years  I  have  been  gripped  by  the  throat.  Ah, 
and  it  must  end,  or  be  the  end  of  me!  Well — Molly, 
look  at  me.    What  will  you  tell  me  ?  " 

She  did  look  at  him  then — for  one  dewy  moment. 
Pity,  kindness,  infinite  wistfulness,  pride — mingled 
in  the  fire,  melted,  and  lay  gleaming  in  her  eyes.  Won- 
deringly  she  searched  his  face,  ready  to  quail  before 
the  savagery  she  expected  to  read  there;  but  he  was 
v/ise — she  could  find  nothing  there  but  honesty, 
frank  and  manly  desire;  for  he  saw  to  it  that  she 
should  not.  Before  she  turned  her  head  she  had 
given  him  her  hand.  He  stooped  and  kissed  it  softly; 
then  went  away. 

Before  dinner  she  went  to  her  husband  in  the  li- 
brary where  he  sat,  with  his  reading-lamp,  blue- 
books,  and  spectacles.  *^Come  in,"  he  had  called  in 
answer  to  her  knock,  but  did  not  turn  when  she  en- 
tered. As  she  approached  his  desk,  approached  his 
studious  back,  she  felt  like  a  school-girl,  coming  to  ask 
if  she  might  leave  early — with  a  fibbing  reason  for  the 
teacher,  which  disguised  the  secret,  fearful  joy  of  the 
real  reason.  The  school-girl  showed  in  every  halting 
word,  in  every  flicker  of  the  covering  eyelids.  .  .  . 

^^I  was  going  to  ask  you— Would  you  mind  if  I 
were  to  go  to  my  people  for  a  few  days — soon? 
Would  you  be  able  to  spare  me,  do  you  think?" 


^02  HALFWAY  HOUSE 


\^ 


He  turned  quickly,  hurt  by  her  meekness.  "My 
love!    Of  course!    Can  you  ask  me  such  things?" 

She  could  not  afford  tenderness  from  him  just 
now.    She  took  a  business-like  tone. 

"My  sister  is  to  be  married  shortly,  as  you  know. 
There  is  a  good  deal  to  do.  I  could  help  mother,  you 
know.  Jinny  is  staying  with  Mr.  Podmore's  fam- 
ily." 

He  nodded  approvingly.  "Quite  so,  quite  so.  It 
would  be  only  kind.  You  have  engagements,  no 
doubt — but  nothing  pressing,  I  suppose.  Have  we 
not  people  here,  by  the  way?" 

"Not  until  the  26th.    This  is  the  nth." 

"Yes,  yes,  my  dear.  Make  whatever  arrange- 
ments suit  you.    When  do  you  think  of  going?" 

"I  thought,  the  day  after  to-morrow.    But " 

"Well,  my  love?" 

"I  should  not  care  to  go,  if  I  thought — that  you 
might  want  me." 

He  turned  to  his  desk.  "Want  you!"  he  said 
under  his  breath.  "Want  you!"  So  careful  was  he 
that  she  could  never  have  guessed  the  bitterness  of 
that  soft  cry. 

But  she  lingered  yet.  "Of  course — it  is  quite 
close  to  town.  You  could  write — or  telegraph — I 
could  come  in  a  moment." 

"Yes,  my  dear  one,  yes,"  he  said,  his  face  averted. 
"It  would  be  easy  enough.  But  I  am  not  likely  to 
disturb  you  in  your  happiness." 

This  would  never  do.  "It  would  be  my  duty  to 
come." 


ADVENTURE  CROWDS  ADVENTURE   303 

He  groaned.    ^'Oh,  my  dearest,  spare  me!'' 
She  must  misconstrue  that,  or  she  must  fail;   she 
must  gulp  it  down,  and  she  did — but  it  turned  her 
sick. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  staidly,  "Then  I  will 
write  to  mother."  Her  fingers  were  within  an  inch 
of  his  shoulder;  they  hovered  over,  almost  touched 
it.  Then  she  went.  He  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands.    I  think  he  prayed. 


IX 

THE  PATTERAN 

As  she  lay  watchful  in  her  bed  the  night  before 
her  escapade,  she  vowed  that  she  had  no  love  for 
Tristram,  none  whatever.  At  the  same  moment 
she  protested  with  a  cry  that  she  had  none  for  her 
husband  either;  indeed,  it  was  rather  the  other  way. 
Surely,  surely,  she  was  entitled  to  resentment  against 
that  poor  gentleman.  For  what  reason  under 
Heaven  had  he  broken  in  upon  her  laborious  days  if, 
now  that  he  had  her,  she  was  to  be  no  more  to  him 
than  a  figure  at  his  table  ?  Was  this  the  whole  duty 
of  wives?  She  knew  better  than  that.  Nay,  then, 
had  wives  no  rights  ?  Was  she  bought  to  be  a  nun  ? 
She  declared  to  herself  that  she  would  be  willing, 
should  that  enable  her  to  help  him  in  his  work.  But 
she  knew  that  nothing  would  enable  her;  she  had 
insight  enough  into  character  to  read  what  manner 
of  man  he  was.  "He  can  tell  me  nothing — nothing. 
And  the  more  he  needs  me  the  less  he  can  say  so.  If 
I  went  to  him  on  my  knees  and  begged  him  to  be 
open  with  me,  he  would  shrivel  before  my  face. 
No,  no,  he  must  be  for  ever  bestowing  favours — he 

loves  to  be  the  benefactor — and  that's  all  he  loves. 

304 


THE  PATTERAN-  305 

If  he  could  pity  me  he  would  love  me  again — in  his 
way.  But — "  and  she  clenched  her  little  hands  and 
stiffened  her  arms — "he  shall  never  pity  me — 
never."  And  then  she  blushed  all  over  to  feel  how 
she  had  crept  to  him  to  ask  his  leave  of  absence,  and 
how  she  had  cowered  there,  with  drooping  eyelids  too 
heavy  to  be  raised.    Alasi  and  how  she  had  fibbed. 

A  thought  of  Tristram  here,  of  his  kisses  and 
strong  arms  about  her,  made  her  heart  beat.  The 
wild  joy  of  being  possessed  by  so  fine  a  creature  was 
not  to  be  denied,  once  you  blinked  the  truth  that  in 
the  very  act  of  taking  possession  he  would  despise 
you  for  suffering  it.  That  had  to  be  blinked,  though. 
Whatever  she  might  have  become  by  right  of  mar- 
riage, by  intercourse  with  Tristram's  own  world,  by 
familiarity  with  its  ways — to  Tristram  she  was  still 
a  little  governess,  sent  into  this  world  to  be  kissed 
and  fondled — but  no  possible  companion  for  a  gen- 
tleman, or  man  of  parts.  Formerly,  if  she  had  felt 
this,  she  had  accepted  it;  but  now — well,  it  had  to 
be  blinked.  Mary  was  no  fool.  She  knew  quite 
well  that  she  had  learned  the  ways  of  the  great.  She 
knew  that  she  was  a  success.  She  had  been  clever 
enough  from  the  beginning  to  see  that  safety  lay  only 
in  being  absolutely  herself.  While  she  had  gone  in 
and  out  of  Misperton  Brand,  from  school-house  to 
church  and  back,  she  had  turned  her  eyes  and  ears 
— all  her  senses — upon  these  lords  of  the  earth  who 
were  lords  without  effort.  Her  Cantacutes,  James 
Germains,  and  their  friends — every  gesture  of  theirs 
had  been  a  study  to  her.    By  instinct  she  had  bored 


3o6  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

into  the  very  marrow  of  these  people.  They  alone  in 
the  world  could  afford  to  be  themselves.  And  di- 
rectly she  could  afford  it  she  put  that  into  practice — 
vv^ith  success,  as  she  knew  very  w^ell.  Tristram  Du- 
plessis,  however,  would  have  none  of  that,  ignored  it. 
He  was  entirely  himself,  too,  and  never  allowed  her 
to  forget  that  she  was  his  inferior.  Every  look  he  gave 
her  was,  in  its  way,  an  insult,  implied  ^'You  are 
mine,  my  dear,  for  the  picking  up."  She  knew  that 
she  ought  to  be  offended — but  she  was  not  offended. 
She  knew  that  such  a  homage  as  his  was  not  flatter- 
ing— and  yet  she  was  flattered  by  it.  Then  why 
should  she  run  away  from  what  pleased  her?  As 
she  asked  herself  this  question,  to  which  the  answer 
had  been  so  easy  a  little  while  before,  she  found  her- 
self now  echoing  more  faintly  her  ^^Why,  indeed?" 
Was  not  love  a  necessity  to  women?  Was  she  to 
have  none  of  it?  Was  she  to  be  an  unwedded  wife 
for  ever,  and  unloved?  What  had  her  friend  told 
her,  that  wonderful  day  in  the  Park  when,  it  had 
seemed,  the  scales  fell  from  her  eyes  and  she  saw 
men  and  women  where  before  she  had  seen  herds, 
dressed  by  the  milliner  and  marshalled  by  the  police  ? 
Love,  he  had  said,  is  a  real  thing — one  of  the  few 
real  things  we  have;  and  it  has  been  turned  by  the 
lawyers  into  a  means  of  securing  real  property.  '^It's 
bad  enough  that  women  should  lend  themselves  to 
that;  but  worse  things  are  done  in  love's  name,  I 
believe."  Well  then,  if  Tristram  loved  her,  in  his 
way,  was  she  not  justified  in  giving  him  what  she 
had  left  to  give?    At  that  moment  she  felt  his  arms 


THE  PATTER  AN  307 

about  her,  his  breath  upon  her  cheeks.  Yes,  yes,  he 
loved  her — he  had  ahvays  loved  her.  Let  come 
what  might  of  that. 

She  turned  on  the  light  and  left  her  bed;  she  sat 
at  her  writing-table  and  scribbled  a  few  words  on  a 
sheet — "I  am  going  to  Blackheath  to-morrow — by 
train.  I  shall  leave  Charing-cross  at  4.15."  She  put 
that  in  an  envelope,  wrote  his  name  and  address, 
stamped  it.  Now,  what  was  the  time  ?  Two  o'clock  ? 
It  could  still  be  posted  so  that  he  would  get  it  at  eight. 
Dressing  gown,  slippers,  a  hasty  twist  to  her  hair,  a 
cloak  and  hood — she  opened  her  door  noiselessly 
and  crept  downstairs. 

She  was  some  time  unfastening  the  front  door — 
time  enough  to  cool;  time  enough  to  decide  with  a 
leaden  heart  that  she  had  no  love  for  Tristram.  The 
keen  pale  air  tempered  her  still  further.  "Be  your- 
self," she  had  been  told;  and  ''Sincerity  is  the  whole 
matter."  Insincerity!  There  lay  the  sin.  She  had 
to  go  to  the  corner  of  the  Square  to  the  pillar-box ; 
but  not  a  soul  was  in  sight :  it  could  be  done.  Gath- 
ering her  cloak  about  her,  she  ventured  out,  and 
walked  tiptoe  forward,  with  eyes  all  as  tare  for  a  po- 
liceman or  late  cab.  .  .  . 

The  houses  seemed  made  of  eyes;  there  was  not 
a  blind  window  but  had  a  witness  in  it.  Mocking, 
leering,  incredulous,  curious,  heavily  reproving  she 
dragged  before  them  her  load  of  shame.  Oh,  that 
it  should  have  come  to  this,  that  she  was  a  spectacle 
for  all  London's  reproach !  But  she  sped  onwards  on 
light  feet,  her  letter  in  her  hand. 


3o8  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

Where  Hill-street  broadens  into  the  Square  stands 
a  great  lamp,  the  centre,  as  it  were,  of  a  pool  of  light. 
There  had  been  a  storm  of  wind  and  rain  in  the 
early  part  of  that  night,  and  the  surface  of  the  road 
was  fretted  with  gleaming  reflections  where  mud  and 
water  had  been  blown  up  into  billows.  As  she  stood 
for  a  second  or  two  by  the  pillar-box,  her  letter  not 
yet  posted,  her  eyes,  painfully  acute,  fell  upon  this 
wide,  dimpled  and  cresseted  bay,  and,  although  her 
mind  was  disturbed,  took  some  sort  of  interest  in 
the  effect.  Following  the  light  inwards,  she  found 
her  looks  arrested  by  something  else — a  torn  spray 
of  a  tree,  blown,  no  doubt,  from  one  of  the  planes  in 
the  Square  garden — which  lay  by  the  pillar-box, 
almost  at  her  feet.  It  was  about  eighteen  inches 
long,  bent  in  the  midst,  and  pointed  to  the  north. 
Strictly,  it  pointed  north-west. 

Immediately  she  remembered  the  patter  an  which 
Senhouse  had  explained  to  her.  Wonderful  thing — 
if  he  had  passed  this  way  while  she  was  contending 
with  her  sin,  and  had  laid  this  sure  sign  in  the  road 
to  show  her  where  he  was  to  be  found !  It  pointed  to 
the  north — no!  to  the  north-west.  That  seemed  to 
make  a  certainty  of  it.  Her  heart  beat  high,  and  the 
flood  of  happiness  rose  within  her  until  she  seemed 
to  be  bathed  in  it  to  the  chin.  She  stood  alone  in  that 
great  glaring  emptiness,  unconscious  of  everything 
but  her  triumphant  release  from  bondage.  To  the 
north — safety  was  in  the  north,  comradeship,  health, 
freedom  to  breathe  and  move  her  limbs!  Smiling  to 
herself,  she  dropped  her  letter  into  the  pillar-box, 


THE  PATTER  AN  309 

picked  up  the  patteran  and  returned  swiftly  to  the 
house,  to  bed  and  to  happy  sleep.  Absolved!  She 
was  absolved. 

In  the  morning  she  arose  with  the  feeling  of  elation 
one  has  at  the  opening  of  an  honest  adventure;  the 
day  is  before  you,  the  world  lies  mapped  out;  you 
are  not  to  fail — you  cannot.  She  dressed,  breakfasted 
and  read  her  letters.  There  was  one  from  Tristram, 
which  she  had  not  even  the  curiosity  to  open.  She 
lit  the  comer  of  it  at  the  spirit-lamp  and  held  it  daintily 
out  while  it  curled  and  blackened  under  the  flame 
and  dropped  in  charred  flakes  into  the  slop  basin. 
Ghosts  of  words  in  silver  characters  flickered  as  they 
perished — she  saw  ^^ homage,"  ^^ heart's  queen,'' 
^'kiss,"  and  ^^my  arms."  She  wrote  to  her  mother  at 
Blackheath  that  she  was  unexpectedly  delayed  but 
hoped  to  come  soon.  She  would  write  again,  she 
said,  or  send  a  telegram.  Meantime  a  trunk  would 
arrive  and  might  wait  for  her.  At  eleven  she  asked 
if  Mr.  Germain  was  up,  and  being  told  that  he  was, 
went  in  to  see  him. 

If  he  had  been  in  the  mood  to  notice  anything  but 
his  own  troubles,  he  must  have  remarked  upon  her 
altered  habit.  She  was  radiantly  well,  self-possessed, 
and  cool.  She  kissed  his  forehead  lightly,  asked  how 
he  had  slept,  and  then  told  him  that  she  was  lunching 
out  and  should  have  her  luggage  sent  down  to  Black- 
heath.  She  had  given  orders  to  her  maid,  and 
should  not  want  the  carriage. 

Mr.  Germain  listened  heavily,  fingering  a  blue- 
book  and  a  pencil.    He  made  no  inquiries,  had  no 


3IO  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

suggestions  to  offer.  She  anticipated  what  he  might 
have  had  to  say  as  to  an  approaching  visit  of  the 
James  Germains  by  teUing  him  that  all  arrangements 
had  been  made — and  then  she  said,  '^I  won't  disturb 
you  again.    I  know  that  you  are  very  busy." 

^*Yes,  yes,'*  he  said.  ^^My  work  presses  upon 
me."  He  sighed,  and  then  asked  with  studied  po- 
liteness, "You  go  to-day?" 

She  laughed.  "I've  just  been  telling  you  about  it." 
She  stooped  and  kissed  his  forehead  again.  "Good- 
bye," she  said,  "I'll  write,  of  course — if  you'll  prom- 
ise to  read  what  I  send  you." 

He  caught  his  breath,  and  shut  his  eyes  tightly  as 
if  something  hurt  him;  but  he  did  not  move  from  his 
chair.  Nor  did  he  once  seek  to  meet  her  eyes.  She 
could  see  that  he  was  deeply  depressed,  but  felt  no 
pity  for  him  just  then.  Her  youth  was  too  strong 
within  her,  her  adventure  too  near,  and  her  freedom 
too  certain.  Yet  she  hovered  above  him  looking 
down  at  him  drooped  in  his  chair,  quivering  over 
him,  as  it  were,  like  some  gossamer  insect  new-dawn- 
ing to  the  sun.  A  word,  a  sigh,  a  look  would  have 
netted  her  in;  but  nothing  came.  He  sat  stonily 
astare,  his  face  hidden  by  his  hand — the  other  keep- 
ing his  page  in  the  blue-book.  Looking  down,  as 
from  the  battlements  of  heaven  an  archangel  might 
survey  the  earth,  she  touched  his  shoulder  with  her 
finger-tips,  and  was  gone. 

In  reasoning  it  all  out,  or  rather  in  flashing  her 
instinct  upon  events — for  that  was  her  way — she 
knew  that  Senhouse  could  not  himself  have  laid  the 


THE  PATTER  AN  311 

patteran  for  her  guidance.  None  the  less,  she  was 
sure  it  was  intended  for  her,  and  that  it  pointed  truly 
to  where  he  was.  It  was  June ;  he  would  be  in  Cum- 
berland. Wastwater  would  find  him,  he  had  said. 
Her  plan,  as  she  worked  it  out,  was  to  take  train  to 
Kendal  and  inquire. 

This  she  did.  While  her  trunk  and  dressing-case 
were  being  delivered  at  Heath  View,  and  while  Du- 
plessis  was  biting  his  nails  under  the  clock  at  Charing 
Cross  Station,  she  was  being  carried  smoothly  to  the 
north,  snugly  in  a  corner  of  a  third-class  carriage, 
her  cheek  to  the  window-pane,  and  her  bright  un- 
winking eyes  watching  the  landscape  as  it  rushed  up 
to  meet  her.  The  villa  gardens  and  hedgerows  of 
Herts,  the  broad  Leicestershire  cornfields,  Bletchley 
with  its  spire,  Rugby,  Crewe,  then  the  dark  over  all ; 
but  scarcely  for  a  moment  did  her  eyes  leave  the 
nearing  north.  She  arrived  at  Kendal  at  midnight, 
and  had  some  tea.  Then  she  found  the  ladies' 
waiting-room,  lay  on  the  sofa,  and  slept. 


X 

THE  BROTHERS   TOUCH  BOTTOM 

The  James  Germains  paid  a  visit  to  Hill-street  in 
June.  It  was  most  unfortunate  that  it  was  so  wet, 
but  the  time  was  otherwise  convenient,  since  Mary 
was  away  on  a  visit  to  her  people.  This  was  how 
Mrs.  James  put  it — she  was  never  remarkable  for 
tact.  Nor  did  she  care  to  be.  Surely,  she  would 
say,  openness  is  best.  Mary  once  departed,  then, 
Mrs.  James  was  installed  the  very  next  day.  The 
Rector  followed  her. 

From  the  first  he  did  not  like  his  brother's  looks. 
John,  he  thought,  was  ailing — ailing  and  ageing. 
He  showed  an  unw^holesome  white  in  the  cheeks,  a 
flabby  quality  in  the  flesh,  poor  appetite,  low  spirits. 
Vitality  was  low ;  he  was  feeble.  He  ate  hardly  any- 
thing, and  betrayed  a  tendency  to  fall  asleep  in 
pauses  of  the  conversation.  Yet  he  talked,  in  flashes, 
during  dinner  of  his  projects,  with  something  of  the 
old  hopefulness.  He  had  lately  been  asking  a  series 
of  questions,  agricultural  questions,  ''somewhat 
carefully  framed'';  he  had  pressed  the  Minister  in 
charge  of  such  matter.    He  was  ''not  without  hope" 

that  some  good  might  result.    Then  a  deputation  of 

312 


THE  BROTHERS  TOUCH  BOTTOM    313 

tenant-farmers  had  been  talked  of;  he  "should  not 
be  unwilling"  to  introduce  that.  It  was  very  char- 
acteristic of  him  to  talk  negatively;  the  Rector  used 
to  trace  it  to  a  Scots  ancestress — a  Forbes  of  Loch- 
gour.  But  he  owned  to  being  weary — alas,  that  a 
legislator  should  admit  that  in  June!  and  said  that 
he  looked  forward  to  the  recess  "like  any  school- 
boy." Mrs.  James,  who  loved  "plans,"  asked  him 
his.  He  had  none,  it  seemed.  "Time  has  pressed 
upon  us  both  of  late ;  my  work  and  her  dissipations ! 
But  I  must  talk  it  over  with  Mary  so  soon  as  she 
returns.  Her  wishes  must  carry  weight  with  me. 
I   should  delight  in   showing  her  Switzerland — or 


Norway " 

"You  would  not,  perhaps,  delight  in  the  thousands 
of  people  doing  the  same  thing?"  Here  was  Mrs. 
James,  with  her  challenging  note.  The  Rector 
marked  with  concern  that  John  let  it  go. 

She  inquired  whether  he  v/ould  resume  his  visits 
to  Misperton  Brand.  "The  Cantacutes  often  speak 
of  you,"  she  told  him,  and  then  remembered  that  of 
course  he  saw  the  Cantacutes  here  in  town.  He 
bowed  his  head. 

"Then  you  know,  of  course,  that  Tristram's  affair 
— if  it  ever  was  an  affair — with  Hertha  is  quite  at  an 
end?" 

No — Mr.  Germain  had  not  known  that.  "I  see 
very  little  of  Tristram,"  he  told  her,  and  resumed  the 
question  of  holiday-making. 

Mary  had  great  leanings  to  Cornwall.  She  had 
been  attracted  to  it  upon  her  first  visit,  had  often 


314 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


talked  of  it,  and  lately  had  seemed  to  prefer  it  to 
Switzerland.  She  would  like  to  be  there  later  in  the 
year;  spoke  of  November  as  a  good  month.  ^*I  can- 
not say  that  it  agrees  with  me,"  he  added.  *'A  lan- 
guid, relaxing  air — and  in  November!  To  my  mind 
a  visit  to  the  Land's  End  in  November  would  be  the 
act  of  a  suicide.  But  Mary  is  young  and  strong; 
and  her  wishes  are  naturally  mine — and  her  pleas- 
ures also  .  .  .  her  pleasures  also."  If  he  sighed  he 
was  not  aware  of  it.  A  silence  fell  upon  the  table, 
which  became  painful  to  two  of  the  three,  though 
not  to  be  broken.  The  Rector  plunged  back  into 
politics.  '^They  tell  me  at  the  clubs  that  Lord 
Craye  leaves  India.  ..."  But  it  would  not  do. 
Mrs.  James  had  the  good  taste  to  rise.  The  carriage 
was  ordered  at  lo  to  take  her  to  a  party. 

When  she  had  gone  the  brothers  sat  without  speak- 
ing for  some  minutes.  The  Rector  drank  his  claret; 
John  Germain  was  in  a  brooding  stare.  The  younger 
broke  the  silence. 

^'Dear  old  boy,  I  wish  that  we  coula  have  stopped 
up  a  few  more  days — but  the  Diocesan  Inspector 
can't  be  put  off.  I  tried  him  with  my  silkiest — he's 
inexorable — adamant.  And  then  there's  Constantia, 
with  a  bazaar  on  her  conscience.  A  bazaar — in  July ! " 

John  Germain  did  not  lift  his  head  from  the  hand 
that  propped  it.  ''My  dear  fellow,  I  understand  you 
perfectly.  We  all  have  our  duties.  We  must  all  face 
them  .  .  .  whatever   it   cost  .  .  .  whatever   it  cost 


us." 


The  Rector  looked  keenly  at  him.    ''You  are  not 


THE  BROTHERS  TOUCH  BOTTOM    315 

yourself,  John — that's  as  clear  as  day.  I  do  wish 
that  Mary  had  not  left  you.  It  was  not  like  her. 
She  should  have  known — "  His  goaded  brother  sat 
up  sharply — like  one  who  lifts  his  gory  head  from 
the  press  of  battle,  descrying  fresh  foes. 

^'Mary  wished  to  go.  I  could  not  deny  her.  In- 
deed, I  wished  it  also.  Her  parents  are  alone,  and 
she  is  useful  to  them.  I  believe,  nay,  I  am  sure  that 
she  is  happy  there." 

*^Your  belief,"  said  the  Rector,  *'is  as  pious  as  the 
fact,  and  as  rare.  The  fashion  of  the  day  is  for  chil- 
dren to  tolerate  their  parents.  The  cry  is,  *You 
brought  us  into  the  world.  Monsieur  et  Dame;  yes, 
and  thank  you  for  nothing!'  Thank  God,  Mary 
hasn't  caught  that  trick.  But  I  do  think  that,  if  she 
is  needed  here,  a  hint  from  you " 

^^But  I  will  give  her  no  such  hints,"  Germain  said 
fiercely.  *^I  am  not  so  self -engrossed.  I  am  inured 
to  a  solitary  life,  and  she  is  not.  I  remember  her 
youth,  I  remember  her  activity." 

"One  would  have  thought  that  London  in  June — " 
the  Rector  began,  and  was  checked  at  once.  Ger- 
main said  shortly  that  the  activity  excited  by  Lon- 
don in  June  was  not  wholesome.  "She  is  better 
there  than  here,"  he  added,  and  snapped  his  lips 
together. 

James  Germain,  having  raised  his  eyebrows  at  this 
oracle,  immediately  lowered  them  again,  and  his 
eyes  with  them.  After  a  pause  he  spoke  more  inti- 
mately, feeling  his  way  along  a  dark,  surmised 
passage. 


3i6  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"I  believe  you  to  mean  that  all  this  whirl  is  very 
new  to  her,  and  over-exciting.  Must  you  not  be  pa- 
tient, must  you  not  lead?  Accustom  her  to  it  by 
degrees?  You  know  what  I  think  of  Mary,  and 
that  I  have  followed  her  steps  with  interest.  You 
have  told  me  how  bravely  she  held  her  own  in  the 
country;  and  you  aren't  likely  to  forget  that  she  had 
two  years  in  which  to  do  it.  You  speak  of  our  duties 
■ — meaning,  I  take  it,  your  own  among  others  ?  Well, 
where  do  these  lie,  these  duties?  Where  we  find 
ourselves,  or  where  we  may  choose  to  put  ourselves  ? 
You  may  tell  me  that  public  life  is,  in  a  sense,  your 
sphere — and  so  it  is,  I  grant  you.  But  when  you 
entered  Mary's  little  sphere — as  you  did,  something 
of  the  suddenest — had  you  not  then  to  inquire 
whether  that  could  be  made  elastic  enough  to  include 
your  own?  Surely  you  had.  This  Parliamentary 
career  of  yours,  now.  Nobody  is  more  naturally  at 
Westminster  than  yourself:  that's  of  course.  I  wish 
there  were  more  like  you,  men  of  sober  judgment, 
weighted  with  their  private  responsibilities.  Upon 
my  conscience.  Parliament  seems  a  place  for  buc- 
caneering now-a-days — a  high  sea.  I  rejoiced,  I 
say,  when  you  stood  up.  But  whether  you  could 
fairly  ask  a  girl  of  Mary's  training  to  take  over  such 
work  with  you — by  your  side — "  Here  John  Ger- 
main held  up  his  hand. 

''One  moment.  You  are  right,  James.  I  could 
not.  I  acted  for  the  best,  so  far  as  I  could  see  my  way. 
I  listened  to  my  hopes.  It  was  important  that  I 
should  do  something  to  interest  her  in — in  our  life 


THE  BROTHERS  TOUCH  BOTTOM    317 

together.  There  were  reasons,  serious  reasons,  into 
which  I  cannot  now  enter.  Her  hfe  at  Southover. 
.  .  .  She  was  not  happy,  she  was  not  contented. 
She  could  not  be." 

James  had  now  nothing  to  say.  He  frowned,  to 
conceal  his  pain.  John  spoke  on  slowly,  as  if  labour- 
ing both  words  and  breath. 

^^I  have  failed  her — I  have  failed  her.  And  since 
that — I  have  held  out  my  hands,  tried  to  speak.  I 
am  dumb  before  her  youth  and  eager  life.  I  love 
her  dearly,  I  need  her — but  she  cannot  know  it,  will 
never  know  it.  Experience  is  what  she  cries  for,  not 
of  the  mouth,  but  of  the  heart  and  blood.  I  have  no 
bfood  to  give  her,  and  my  heart  is  in  a  cage.''  He 
spoke  calmly,  with  the  icy  breath  of  despair  upon 
his  mouth;  but  it  was  to  be  seen  that  his  thin  frame 
trembled.  .  .  .  ^^A  barrier  grew  up  between  us,  not 
made  with  hands.  Fate  made  her  speak  when  I 
was  at  my  lowest;  it  called  me  to  listen  when  she 
was  made  strong  by  need.  Since  then  she  has  re- 
spected me  through  fear;  loved  me  by  duty.  I 
should  have  charmed  her  fears  away,  made  love  her 
food.  Alas!  You  know  that  I  have  failed — from 
the  very  first." 

What  could  the  other  say?  What  could  he  do 
but  bow  his  head  ? 

"...  I  have  endeavoured  not  to  be  selfish  in  this 
serious  matter.  It  would  have  been  easy  for  me  to 
have  kept  her  in  the  country;  a  plausible  thing — it 
was  implied  when  I  took  her.  But  I  was  not  able  to 
do  that.    The  idea  of  the  sacrifice  of  one  so  salient 


3i8  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

and  strong,  so  well-disposed,  with  so  much  charm, 
was  abhorrent  to  me.  Deliberately,  knowing  full 
well  what  risks  I  ran,  I  chose  for  this  Parliamentary 
work;  and  now  I  have,  under  my  eyes,  the  result 
which  I  feared — the  snares  are  all  about  her;  she 
cannot  walk  without  danger.  And  I  must  watch,  and 
be  dumb.'^ 

He  sat  bitterly  silent  for  a  while.  Then  his  eyes 
flamed,  and  he  struck  the  table  with  his  closed  hand. 

''Nobody  shall  take  her  from  me.  There  is  a 
point  beyond  which  I  cannot  go.  She  is  mine  in  all 
duty  and  conscience.  I  am  vowed  to  protect  her, 
and  I  will  do  it — both  now  and  hereafter.  Where 
she  is  now  she  is  safe  from  the  dastardly  designs  which 
beset  her  here.  Her  father  will  protect  her,  her 
father's  house.  When  she  returns,  I  must  take  some 
steps — I  must  consider  my  plans — I  have  time 
enough.  On  this  I  am  utterly  resolved,  that  I  will 
rescue  her  soul  from  destruction  .  .  .  my  darling 
from  the  lions  .  .  .  from  the  power  of  the  dog." 

His  voice  broke;  he  could  say  no  more;  but  his 
face  was  white  and  stern.  James  Germain  had  no 
help  for  him. 


XI 

OF  MARY  IN   THE   NORTH 

She  had  followed  out  Senhouse's  precepts  as 
nearly  to  the  letter  as  might  be;  neither  staff  nor 
scrip  had  she — no  luggage  at  all,  and  very  little 
money.  In  her  exalted  mood  of  resolve  it  had 
seemed  a  flouting  of  Providence  to  palter  with  the 
ideal.  To  follow  the  patteran  unerringly — a  bird's 
flight  to  the  north — one  could  only  fail  by  hesitation. 
Time,  and  the  pressure  of  that  alone,  had  insisted 
on  the  railway.  The  road,  no  doubt,  had  been  the 
letter  of  the  law. 

Perhaps,  too,  a  map  was  another  compromise; 
but  she  found  one  in  the  station  where,  having  made 
full  use  of  its  water,  hair-brushes,  and  looking-glass, 
she  dallied  in  the  gay  morning  light — hovering 
tremulous  on  the  brink  of  the  unknown.  It  showed 
her  Wastwater — where  he  had  told  her  he  was  always 
to  be  found;  and  it  showed  her  Kendal,  too,  dim 
leagues  of  mountain  and  moor  apart.  A  loitering 
lampman  entered  into  conversation  with  her.  He 
was  a  Langdaler,  he  told  her;  used  to  walk  over 
once  a  week  to  see  the  old  folks;  and  there  was  an- 
other call  he  had  thither,  it  seems.     There  was  a 

319 


320 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


lady — his  ^' young  lady,"  who  took  it  hard  if  he 
missed  his  day. 

He  spoke  profoundly  of  Rossett  Gill  and  Green 
Tongue,  of  Angle  Tarn  and  Great  End,  and  of  the 
shelter  under  Esk  Hause,  which  many  a  man  had 
been  thankful  of  before  to-day.  He  advised  the 
train  to  Windermere,  the  coach  to  Ambleside ;  thence, 
said  he,  you  would  get  another  coach  to  the  Lang- 
dales,  and  there  the  road  stops  and  you  must  take  to 
Shanks's  mare.  Here  he  looked  her  up  and  down, 
not  disapprovingly.  ^^Yon's  a  rough  road  for  you," 
he  considered,  ''and  the  track  none  so  sure  where  the 
ground  is  soft.  But  you'll  do  it  yet,"  said  he;  ''and 
I'm  thinking  there'll  be  looking  for  ye  out  of  Wast- 
water."  She  blushed,  and  denied.  "Then  he's  a 
fule,"  said  the  lampman.  His  final  warning  was  that 
she  should  inquire  at  the  hotel  before  she  started  off 
to  walk.  She  promised,  and  went  into  the  town  for  a 
breakfast. 

Fold  within  fold,  height  above  height,  wood  and 
rock  and  water,  the  hill-country  opened  to  her  and 
took  her  in.  When  she  changed  coaches  at  Ambleside 
she  was  driven  into  the  arms  of  the  west  wind,  and 
could  feel  that  every  mile  brought  her  nearer  to  her 
friend.  Before  the  end  of  this  sunlit  day  she  would  be 
face  to  face  with  the  one  being  in  all  this  world  who 
might  know,  if  he  would,  every  secret  of  her  heart. 
As  she  thought  this,  she  pondered  it.  Every  secret 
of  her  heart  ?  Might  he  then  know  all  ?  Yes — and 
she  could  tell  herself  so  without  a  blush — even  to  that 
which  she  dared  not  confess  to  herself;  even  to  that, 


OF  MARY   IN  THE  NORTH  321 

he  might  know  them  all.  She  was  in  great  spirits, 
and  there  were  those  in  her  company  upon  the  coach 
who  could  have  commerced  with  her,  by  way  of  ex- 
change or  barter.  But  though  her  eyes  sparkled, 
and  her  parted  lips  were  dewy,  she  had  no  looks  for 
gallant  youth.  She  faced  the  north-west,  and  never 
turned  her  face. 

The  horses  drew  up,  and  stretched  their  necks  for 
water  and  the  nose-bag;  the  passengers  tumbled 
into  the  inn  for  luncheon.  Mary,  faltering  no  more, 
struck  out  along  the  valley,  up  Mickleden,  for  the 
sheep-fold  and  Rossett  Gill.  .The  coachman  had 
told  her  that  this  road  could  not  be  mistook;  her 
trouble  would  begin  from  the  Gill.  ^'Follow  the 
beck,"  he  said,  ^'to  Angle  Tarn — that  on  your  left 
hand — and  over  the  pass.  Make  you  then  for  the 
gap  betwixt  Great  End  and  Hanging  Knott.  Esk 
Hause  we  call  it — a  lonesome  place.  You  shall  not 
turn  to  right  or  left,  if  you  mind  me.  Due  nor'-west 
lies  your  road,  down  and  up  again  to  the  Sprinkling 
Tarn.  Maybe  you'll  find  a  shepherd  there.  'Tis 
a  place  to  want  company  in,  they  tell  me.  You 
should  strike  the  Sty  head  pass  near  by — if  you're 
in  luck's  way." 

At  starting,  she  felt  that  she  was;  springs  in  her 
heels,  music  in  her  heart.  Up  the  broad  valley,  over 
rocks  and  tufted  fern,  beside  clear-running  water 
she  sped  her  way,  until  under  the  frowning  steep  of 
the  Pikes  she  began  to  climb.  Here  she  had  needed 
both  patience  and  breath;  but  being  alone  with  all 
this  mountain  glory,  she  must  frolic  and  spend  her- 


322  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

self.  She  took  off  boots  and  stockings  and  cooled 
her  feet  in  water  and  moss ;  she  crossed  the  beck,  and 
re-crossed  it,  picked  a  knot  of  harebells  for  her  belt, 
stooped  to  drink  out  of  clear  fountains,  rested  supine 
in  deep  heather,  fanned  herself  with  fronded  fern, 
watched  the  clouds,  the  birds,  bared  her  arms  to  the 
shoulder  and  plunged  them  after  trout.  She  played 
with  her  prospect,  and  had  never  been  so  happy  in 
her  life.  At  five  o'clock,  biscuits  and  chocolate;  and 
instead  of  being  by  Sprinkling  Tarn  she  was  not  yet 
at  Esk  Hause. 

It  was  here  that  she  misgave  herself,  and  for  a 
moment  knew  the  wild  horror  of  the  solitude.  Man 
is  not  made  for  the  fells;  Pan  haunts  them,  and  the 
fear  of  him  gripes  the  heart  suddenly  and  turns  man 
to  stone.  The  sun,  sloping,  had  hidden  himself  be- 
yond Great  End.  The  world  looked  dun  and  sinister 
— estranged  from  her  and  her  little  joys  and  hopes. 
She  stood  on  a  trackless  moorland  encompassed  by 
mighty  hills.  The  black  earth  oozed  black  water 
where  she  trod;  right  over  against  her  stood  a  mass 
of  tumbled  rock,  spiked  at  the  top  as  with  knives. 
She  was  to  go  neither  right  nor  left,  she  had  been 
told;  but  which  was  right  and  which  left  by  now, 
when  she  had  roamed  broadcast  and  at  random  a 
few  times  ? 

The  knowledge  that  she  was  intensely  alone 
braced  her  against  her  nerves.  She  beat  back  panic 
and  considered  what  had  best  be  done.  Here  stood 
the  shelter,  a  rude  circle  of  stones  breast-high.  With- 
in was  a  seat  half  hidden  in  tall  fern  and  foxgloves. 


OF  MARY   IN   THE  NORTH  323 

Until  she  knew  her  road  more  certainly,  she  would 
not  leave  that  refuge  from  the  night  wind;  but  at 
the  thought  of  night  coming  down  and  finding  her 
here,  alone  with  bat  and  crying  bird,  made  her 
shiver.  With  the  shelter,  then,  always  in  her  eye, 
she  explored  the  tableland  where  now  she  was  on  all 
sides.  The  walking  was  rough  and  boggy ;  she  was 
near  being  mired  more  than  once.  Fatigue  settled 
down  upon  her  as  her  spirits  fell  dead;  despair  rose 
up  in  their  place  and  drove  her  to  frantic  efforts. 
She  climbed  heights  which  could  give  her  no  helping 
prospect — since  all  was  alike  to  her,  one  intricate 
puzzle  of  darkening  purple  valleys  and  clouded 
peaks.  And  here  the  darkness  came  down  like  a  fog 
and  found  her  still.  She  huddled  closely  into  her 
cloak  and  sat  in  the  shelter,  while  fear,  reproach,  and 
doubts  of  which  she  would  never  have  dreamed  drove 
howling  over  the  field — like  the  warring  women  of 
the  Rheinfels  scenting  havoc  from  afar  off,  who,  or 
whose  likes,  we  suppose,  people  the  uplands  in  the 
night-time  while  men  and  women  in  the  valleys  sleep 
with  their  children  about  them. 

At  nine  o'clock  it  was  dusk,  but  not  dark;  she 
heard  quite  suddenly  and  with  distinctness  a  child 
crying.  ^'Boohoo!  Boohoo!" — a  merry  note.  There 
was  no  doubt  that  it  was  silver  music  to  her.  A 
child  crying,  and  not  far  away;  she  left  the  shelter 
immediately,  her  heart  clamative  for  this  blessed 
solace. 

It  led  her  further  than  she  had  expected,  directly 
away  from  the  shelter  to  the  edge  of  the  moorland 


324 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


and  down  hill  among  rocks  and  boulders.  She  knew 
that  she  could  not  find  her  way  back,  knev/  that  she 
had  risked  everything.  Stopping,  with  her  heart 
beating  fast,  she  listened  for  the  sobbing  wail; 
caught  it  again,  more  clearly  than  before,  and  went 
down  after  it.  The  descent  became  steep,  and  she 
very  hot ;  but  nov/  the  scent  also  was  hot,  and  she  in 
full  cry.  Presently  it  struck  upon  her  close  at  hand. 
**Boohoo!    Boohoo!" 

^' Don't  cry,''  she  called  out  clearly.  "I'm  coming 
— don't  cry." 

The  wailing  stopped,  but  not  the  snivelling,  by 
whose  sound  she  was  led.  She  peeped  round  a 
great  buttress  of  rock  and  saw  a  barefoot  boy,  his  face 
in  his  arm,  crying  pitifully.  She  ran  forward  and 
knelt  by  him — "What  is  it  ?  Tell  me  what  the  matter 
is."  He  showed  neither  surprise  nor  alarm — he  was 
beyond  that  stage — but  as  she  continued  to  coax 
him,  put  her  arm  round  his  neck  and  tried  to  draw 
him  to  her,  he  turned  up  presently  his  bedabbled 
face  and  gave  her  to  understand  that  he  was  lost  and 
hungry.  Mary  laughed  for  joy.  Here  was  one  in 
worse  case  than  she.  "But  so  am  I,  my  dear!"  she 
told  him;  "we're  lost  together.  It's  not  half  so  bad 
when  there  are  two  of  us,  you  know.  And  I've  still 
got  some  food  left.  Now  dry  your  eyes  and  come 
and  sit  by  me — and  we'll  see  what  we  shall  see." 

He  had  a  pinched,  pale  face,  freckled,  and  a 
shock  of  sandy  hair  which  tumbled  about  his  eyes. 
So  far  as  could  be  seen  he  had  no  shirt ;,  but  he  was 
company,  and  more — he  was  poorer-hearted  than 


OF  MARY  IN  THE  NORTH  325 

herself.  The  mother  in  ail  women  awoke  in  her; 
here  was  a  child  to  be  nursed. 

He  came  to  her  without  preface  and  sat  by  her 
side.  She  did  not  scruple  to  wipe  his  eyes  and 
m^outh  with  her  handkerchief;  she  embraced  him 
with  her  arms,  snuggled  him  to  her,  and  fed  him 
with  chocolate  and  biscuits.  He  seemed  hungry,  but 
more  frightened  than  hungry,  and  more  tired  than 
either ;  for  when  he  had  finished  what  she  first  gave 
him  he  lay  still  within  her  arm  for  some  time,  with 
his  head  against  her  bosom.  Presently  she  found 
that  he  was  simply  asleep.  Happier  than  she  had 
been  for  some  hours,  she  let  him  lie  as  he  was,  until 
presently  she  also  felt  drowsy.  Then  she  laid  him 
gently  down  in  the  brake,  took  off  her  hat,  and  lay 
beside  the  lad.  The  cloak  covered  them  both;  in 
two  minutes  she  was  asleep. 

He  awoke  her  in  the  small  grey  hours  by  stretching 
in  his  sleep,  and  then,  by  a  sudden  movement,  fling- 
ing his  arm  over  her  and  drawing  himself  close.  She 
took  him  in  her  arms  and  held  him  fast.  He  was 
still  deeply  asleep.  She  could  hear  his  regular  breath, 
and  feel  it  too.  ^^Poor  dear,"  she  whispered,  ^' sleep 
soundly  while  you  can."  Then  she  kissed  him,  and 
herself  slept  again. 

A  sense  of  the  full  light,  of  the  warmth  of  the  sun 
upon  her,  added  to  the  drowsy  comfort  of  the  hours 
between  sleep  and  waking.  The  boy  was  still  fast, 
and  she  hardly  conscious,  when  some  shadow  be- 
tween her  and  the  comfort  in  which  she  lay  basking 
caused  her  to  open  her  eyes.     Above  her,  looking 


326  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

down  upon  her,  quietly  amused,  stood  Senhouse, 
holding  his  horse  by  the  bridle.  The  long  white 
sweater,  the  loose  flannel  trousers,  bare  feet,  bare 
head — but  he  might  have  been  an  angel  robed  in  light. 

She  sat  up,  blushing  and  misty-eyed.  *'It  is  you! 
You  have  come  in  my  sleep.  I  have  been  two  days 
looking  for  you."  The  extraordinary  comfort  she 
had  always  felt  in  the  man's  presence  was  upon  her 
immediately.  Nothing  to  explain,  nothing  to  exten- 
uate, nothing  to  hide — what  a  priceless  possession, 
such  a  friend ! 

^^Two  days!"  he  said.  ^'You  might  easily  have 
been  two  months — or  two  years  for  that  matter. 
But  you  have  made  a  mighty  good  shot.  My  camp 
is  not  six  hundred  yards  away.  I'll  show  you.  But 
who's  your  sleeping  friend?" 

She  looked  down  at  the  lad,  whose  face  was  buried 
deep  in  bracken.    She  put  her  hand  on  his  hair. 

'^I  don't  know — some  poor  boy.  I  heard  him 
crying  last  night  when  I  had  completely  lost  myself, 
and  followed  the  sound.  We  comforted  each  other. 
He  gave  me  a  good  night,  anyhow.  We  kept  each 
other  warm.  But  I  know  no  more  of  him  than  that. 
We'll  find  out  where  he  belongs  to  when  he  wakes. 
He  wants  food  mostly,  I  think."  And  then  she 
laughed  in  his  face — "and  so  do  I,  I  believe." 

''  Of  course  you  do,"  said  Senhouse.  ''  Come  along, 
and  we'll  breakfast.  I've  just  been  out  capturing  the 
Ghost.    He  had  wandered  far,  the  old  beggar." 

Mary  jumped  up.  ''What  are  we  to  do  with  the 
boy?" 


OF   MARY   IN   THE  NORTH  327 

*^0h,  he'll  sleep  for  an  hour  yet.  We'll  fetch  him 
when  his  grub's  ready.  You  must  help  me,  you 
know,  now  you're  here." 

^'Of  course,"  she  said,  and  walked  by  him,  carry- 
ing her  hat  in  her  hand.  ^^Are  you  surprised  to  see 
me?"  she  must  needs  ask  him. 

Senhouse  raised  his  eyebrows.  ^^No — I  won't  say 
that.  I  should  like  to  know  why  you  came,  though. 
No  trouble,  I  hope?" 

She  looked  at  him,  radiant.  ^'No  trouble  now. 
I  saw  your  trail — your  patter  an — in  London." 

He  started.  "No,  indeed,  you  did  not.  I  haven't 
been  near  London  since  I  saw  you  there.  I  came 
straight  here  by  train.  But  I'll  tell  you  a  curious 
thing.    Three  nights  ago  I  dreamed  of  you." 

Her  eyes  shone.  "Tell  me  your  dream."  But  he 
would  not,  and  she  could  not  make  him. 

Past  Sprinkling  Tarn,  and  by  the  pass  which 
hangs  round  about  the  Great  Gable,  he  led  her  to  a 
green  plateau,  high  above  the  track,  where  she  could 
see  the  tent.  Bingo  stood  up  and  barked  a  welcome 
short  and  sharp.  Then  he  came  scrambling  down 
the  scree  to  meet  her,  knew  her  again  immediately, 
and  was  profusely  happy  to  see  her.  It  was  all  like 
coming  home  for  the  holidays.  She  turned  her  glow- 
ing face  to  Senhouse,  and  her  brimming  eyes. 

"Oh,  why  are  you  so  good  to  me,  you  two?"  she 
asked  him,  with  Bingo's  head  and  fore-quarters  in 
her  lap. 

"Why  not?"  said  Senhouse. 


XII 

COLLOQUY  IN  THE  HILLS 

By  the  time  the  coffee  was  made,  and  the  por- 
ridge, and  Mary  had  emerged  from  the  tent,  washed 
and  brushed  and  sparkling,  she  bethought  her  of  the 
boy.  "I'll  fetch  him,"  she  told  Senhouse.  "He 
must  be  fed."  Senhouse  nodded,  so  she  went  back 
to  her  gtte  of  the  night.  The  boy  had  disappeared, 
and  with  him  her  cloak. 

Senhouse  chuckled  when  he  heard  her  faltered 
tale.  "Nature  all  over — bless  her  free  way,"  he  said. 
"She'll  lap  you  like  a  mother — and  stare  you  do\\m 
for  a  trespasser  within  the  hour.  She  takes  her  profit 
where  she  finds  it,  and  if  she  can't  find  it  will  cry 
herself  to  sleep.  Don't  you  see  that  you  were  so 
much  to  the  good  for  our  friend?  Well,  what  have 
you  to  regret?  You  warmed  him,  cuddled  him,  fed 
him — and  he's  gone,  warmed,  cuddled,  and  fed. 
You've  been  the  Bona  Dea — and  he's  not  a  bit 
obliged  to  you;  very  likely  he  thinks  you  were  a  fool. 
Perhaps  you  were,  my  dear;  but  I  tell  you,  fools  are 
the  salt  of  the  earth." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Mary  said.     "Of  course  I  don't 

mind  the  cloak.     He  wanted  it  more  than  I  did. 

328 


COLLOQUY   IN   THE   HILLS  329 

But  what  will  become  of  him — poor  little  pinched 
boy?" 

Senhouse  picked  up  a  bleached  leaf  of  rowan — 
a  gossamer  leaf — and  showed  it  to  her.  "What  will 
become  of  that,  think  you?  It  all  goes  back  again. 
Nothing  is  lost."  He  threv/  it  up,  and  watched  it 
drift  away  on  the  light  morning  wind.  Then, 
"Come  and  have  your  breakfast,"  he  bade  her. 

As  they  ate  and  drank  she  found  herself  talking  to 
him  of  matters  which  London  might  have  shrieked 
to  hear.  But  it  seemed  not  at  all  strange  that  Sen- 
house  should  listen  calmly,  or  she  candidly  discuss 
them.  He  had  not  shown  the  least  curiosity  either 
to  find  her  here  or  to  know  why  she  had  come;  in 
fact,  after  his  question  of  "No  trouble,  I  hope?" 
and  her  reply,  he  had  become  absorbed  in  what  he 
had  to  do  that  day — the  meal  to  be  prepared,  and 
the  plantation  of  Mariposa  lilies  which  he  was  to 
show  her.  "The  work  of  three  years — just  in  flower 
for  the  first  time.  You're  lucky  in  the  time  of  your 
visit — another  week  and  you  would  have  missed 
them."  But  her  need  to  speak  was  imperious,  and  so 
she  gave  him  to  understand. 

She  told  him,  therefore,  everything  which  had 
been  implied  in  former  colloquies — and  found  him 
prepared  to  believe  her.  Indeed,  he  told  her  fairly 
that  when  he  had  first  heard  from  her  that  she  was 
to  marry  John  Germain  he  recognized  that  she  v/ould 
not  be  married  at  all.  "Mind  you,"  he  went  on, 
"that  need  not  have  mattered  a  bit  if  the  good  man 
had  had  any  other  career  to  open  to  you.    It  was  a 


330 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


question  of  that.  You  might  have  been  his  secretary, 
or  his  confidante,  or  his  conscience,  or  his  house- 
keeper. But  he's  so  damned  self-contained — if 
you'll  forgive  me  for  saying  that — that  he  and  the 
likes  of  him  start  in  life  filled  up  with  everything 
except  nature.  There  was  really  nothing  for  you  to 
be  to  him  except  an  object  of  charity.  Nor  did  he 
want  you  to  be  anything  else.  He  actually  bought 
you,  don't  you  see,  so  that  he  might  do  his  benevo- 
lence comfortably  at  home.  You  were  to  be  bene- 
ficiary and  admiring  bystander  at  once.  And  you 
must  have  made  him  extremely  happy  until  you 
began  to  make  use  of  his  bounties,  and  learn  by  what 
you  had  to  do  without  them.  Where  was  he  then? 
It's  like  a  mother  with  a  sucking  child.  She  makes 
it  strong,  makes  a  man  of  it;  and  then,  when  it  leaves 
her  lap  and  goes  to  forage  for  itself,  she  resents  it. 
What  else  could  she  expect?  What  else  could  Ger- 
main expect?  He  gives  you  the  uses  of  the  world; 
you  find  out  that  you  are  a  woman  with  parts;  you 
proceed  to  exercise  yourself — and  affront  him  mor- 
tally. I'll  warrant  that  man  quivering  all  over  with 
mortification — but  I  am  sure  he  will  die  sooner  than 
let  you  know  it." 

Her  eyes  shone  bright.  ''Yes,  that's  true.  He  is 
like  that.    Well,  but " 

Senhouse  went  on,  speaking  between  pulls  at  his 
pipe.  He  did  not  look  at  her;  he  looked  at  his  san- 
dalled feet. 

"I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  do  not  see  what  you  owe 
him  that  has  not  been  at  his  disposal  any  day  these 


COLLOQUY  IN  THE  HILLS  331 

two  years  and  a  half.  I  suppose,  indeed,  that  the 
blessed  Law  would  relieve  you — but  by  process  so 
abominable  and  disgusting  that  a  person  who  would 
seek  that  way  of  escape  would  be  hardly  fit  to  be  let 
loose  on  the  world.  That  being  so,  what  are  you  to 
do?  The  fact  is,  Germain's  not  sane.  One  who 
misreads  himself  so  fatally,  so  much  at  another's  ex- 
pense, is  not  sane.  Then,  I  say,  the  world's  before 
you,  if  you  have  courage  enough  to  face  the  police- 
man. He  can't  touch  you,  you  know,  but  he  can 
stare  you  up  and  down  and  make  you  feel  mean." 
Then  he  looked  at  her,  kindly  but  coolly — as  if  to 
ask.  Well,  what  do  you  make  of  that  ?  And  if  he  saw 
what  was  behind  her  hot  cheeks  and  lit  eyes  he  did 
not  betray  the  knowledge. 

She  could  herself  hardly  see  him  for  the  mist,  and 
hardly  trust  herself  to  speak  for  the  trembling  which 
possessed  her.  "Oh,  I  would  dare  any  scorn  in  the 
world,  and  face  any  hardships  if — "  but  she  bit  her 
lip  at  that  point,  and  looked  away;  he  saw  tears 
hover  at  her  eyes'  brink. 

Presently  he  asked  her,  "What  brought  you  up 
here  to  see  me?"  and  she  almost  betrayed  herself. 

"Do  you  ask  me  that?"  Her  heart  was  like  to 
choke  her. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "yes,  I  do."  She  schooled  her- 
self— looked  down  and  smoothed  out  the  creases  in 
her  skirt. 

"There's  some  one — who  wants  me." 

"I  can't  doubt  it.    Well?" 

She  spoke  fast.    "He  has — wanted  me  for  a  long 


332 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


time — since  before  I  was  married.  Perhaps  I  have 
given  him  reason — I  didn't  mean  to  do  that — but 
certainly  he  used  to  think  that  I  belonged  to  him. 
I  was  very  ignorant  in  those  days,  and  very  stupid — 
and  he  took  notice  of  me,  and  I  was  pleased — so  he 
did  have  some  reason,  I  think.  Well,  it  all  began 
again  last  year — imperceptibly;  I  couldn't  tell  you 
how.  And  now  he  thinks  that  I  still  belong  to  him — 
and  when  I  am  with  him  I  feel  that  I  do.  But  not 
when  I  am  away  from  him,  or  alone.  I  am  sure  that 
he  does  not  love  me;  I  know  that  I  don't  love  him. 
I  feel  humiliated  by  such  a  courtship;  really,  he  in- 
sults me  by  his  very  look ;  and  so  he  always  did,  only 
I  couldn't  see  it  formerly.  But  now  I  do.  I  desire 
never  to  see  him  again — indeed,  I  dare  not  see  him; 
because,  if  I  do,  I  know  what  must  happen.  He  is 
stronger  than  I,  he  is  very  strong.  I  know,  I  know 
very  well  that  he  could  make  me  love  him  if  I  let 
him.  You  have  no  conception — how  could  you 
have?  You  don't  know  what  a  woman  feels  when 
she  is^when  such  a  man  as  that — makes  her  love 
him.  Despair.  But  I  must  not — no,  no,  I  would 
sooner  die.  I  could  never  lift  up  my  head  again. 
Slavery."  She  shuddered,  and  shut  her  eyes;  then 
turned  quickly  to  Senhouse.  ''Oh,  dear  friend,  I 
came  to  you  because  I  was  nearly  lost  one  night. 
I  had  all  but  promised.  I  saw  your  sign  in  the  road 
—or  thought  that  I  did— just  in  time,  just  in  the 
nick  of  time.  And  when  I  saw  it,  though  I  had  my 
letter  to  him  in  my  hand,  telling  him  where  to  find 
me  the  next  day —    Do  you  know,  I  felt  so  strong 


COLLOQUY   IN  THE   HILLS  333 

and  splendidly  free  that  I  posted  the  letter  to  him— 
and  came  straight  here  without  any  check — and 
found  you.  Ah!"  she  said,  straining  her  two  hands 
together  at  the  full  stretch  of  her  arms,  ''Ah!  I  did 
well  that  time.  Because  that  very  night  when  I  was 
fighting  for  my  life  you  were  dreaming  of  me."  If 
Senhouse  had  looked  at  her  now  he  would  have  seen 
what  was  the  matter  with  her.  But  he  was  sunk  in 
his  thoughts.  "This  fellow,"  he  said,  broodingly, 
"this  fellow — Duplessis,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes." 

"I  used  to  know  Duplessis — at  Cambridge.  And 
I've  seen  him  since.  He's  not  much  good,  you 
know."  ; 

She  was  looking  now  at  her  hands  in  her  lap, 
twisting  her  fingers  about,  suddenly  bashful. 

"But  I  think,"  Senhouse  went  on,  in  a  level  voice, 
"I  think  you  had  better  go  back  and  face  him." 

She  started,  she  looked  at  him  full  of  alarm. 
"Oh,  don't  tell  me  to  do  that — I  implore  you.  Let 
me  stay  here  a  little  while,  until  I'm  stronger."  He 
smiled,  but  shook  his  head. 

"No,  no.  Too  unconventional  altogether.  Really 
I  mean  what  I  say.  If  you  are  to  be  free  you  must 
fight  yourself  free.  There's  no  other  way.  Fight 
Germain,  if  it  is  worth  your  while;  but  fight  Du- 
plessis at  all  events.  That  is  essential.  Bless  you, 
you  have  only  to  tell  him  the  truth,  and  the  thing's 
done." 

She  was  very  serious.  "I  assure  you,  it  is  not.  He 
won't  care  for  the  truth;   he  won't  care  what  I  tell 


334  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

him —  No,  don't  ask  me  to  do  that.  It's  not — kind 
of  you." 

Senhouse  got  up.  **  Let's  go  and  look  at  my 
hhes,"  he  said.  ''We'll  talk  about  your  troubles 
again  presently."  She  jumped  to  her  feet  and  fol- 
lowed him  down  the  mountain. 

He  led  her  by  a  scrambling  path  round  the  face  of 
Great  Gable,  and  so  past  Kirkfell  foot  into  Mosedale, 
bright  as  emerald.  As  they  neared  the  mountains, 
he  showed  her  by  name  the  Pillar,  Steeple  and  Red 
Pike,  Windy  Gap  and  Black  Sail.  High  on  the 
southern  face  of  the  Pillar  there  was,  he  said,  a  pla- 
teau which  none  knew  of  but  he.  To  reach  it  was 
a  half-hour's  walk  for  her;  but  he  encouraged  her 
with  voice  and  hand.  There!  he  could  tell  her,  at 
last;  now  she  was  to  look  before  her.  They  stood 
on  a  shelf  which  sloped  gently  to  the  south.  Mary 
caught  her  breath  in  wonder,  and  gave  a  little  shriek 
of  delight.  ''Oh,  how^  exquisite!  Oh,  how  gloriously 
beautiful!"  A  cloud  of  pale  flowers — violet,  rose, 
white,  golden  yellow — swayed  and  danced  in  the 
breeze,  each  open-hearted  to  the  sun  on  stalks  so 
slender  that  each  bell  seemed  afloat  in  air — a  bubble 
of  colour;  she  thought  she  had  never  seen  so  lovely 
a  thing.  Senhouse,  peacefully  absorbing  her  wonder 
and  their  beauty,  presently  began  to  explain  to  her 
what  he  had  done.  "I  had  seen  these  perfect  things 
in  California,  growing  in  just  such  a  place;  so  when 
I  lit  on  this  plateau  I  never  rested  till  I  got  what  it 
was  plainly  made  for.  Full  south,  you  see;  shel- 
tered on  the  east  and  north;   good  drainage,  and  a 


COLLOQUY  IN  THE  HILLS  335 

peaty  bottom.  I  had  a  hundred  bulbs  sent  out,  and 
put  them  in  three  years  ago.  No  flowers  until  this 
year;  but  they've  grown  well — there  are  nearly  two 
hundred  of  them  out  now.  I've  had  to  work  at  it 
though.  I  covered  them  with  bracken  every  autumn, 
and  kept  the  ground  clean — and  here  they  are !  With 
luck,  the  tourists  won't  light  on  them  until  there  are 
enough  and  to  spare.  They  are  the  worst.  I  don't 
mind  the  Natural  History  Societies  a  bit;  they  take 
two  or  three,  and  publish  the  find — but  I  can  stand 
that,  because  nobody  reads  their  publications.  The 
trippers  take  everything — or  do  worse.  They'll  cut 
the  lot  to  the  ground — flowers  and  leaves  alike;  and, 
you  know,  you  kill  a  bulb  if  you  take  its  leaves.  It 
can't  eat,  poor  thing — can't  breathe.  Now  just  look 
into  one  of  those  things — look  at  that  white  one." 
She  was  kneeling  before  the  bevy,  and  cupped  the 
chosen  in  her  two  hands.  '^  Just  look  at  those  rings 
of  colour — flame,  purple,  black,  pale  green.  Can 
such  a  scheme  as  that  be  matched  anywhere?  It's 
beyond  talk,  beyond  dreams.  Now  tell  me,  have  I 
done  a  good  thing  or  not?" 

She  turned  him  a  glowing  face.  ^^You  ought  to 
be  very  happy." 

He  laughed.  "I  aw  happy.  And  so  may  you  be 
when  you  please." 

"Ah!"  she  looked  ruefully  askance.  ''I  don't 
know — I'm  not  sure.  But  if  I  am  ever  to  be  happy 
it  will  be  by  what  you  teach  mie." 

^'My  child,"  said  Senhouse,  and  put  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder,  ''look  at  these  things  well — and  then 


336  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

ask  yourself,  Is  it  worth  while  troubling  about  a 
chap  like  Duplessis,  while  God  and  the  Earth  are 
making  miracles  of  this  sort  every  day  somewhere?" 
Thoughtful,  serious,  sobered,  she  knelt  on  under  his 
hand. 

^'Love  between  a  man  and  a  woman  is  just  such 
a  miracle — just  as  lovely  and  fragile  a  thing.  But 
there's  no  doubt  about  it,  when  it  comes — and  it 
ought  not  to  be  denied,  even  if  it  can  be.  When 
there's  a  doubt,  on  either  side — the  thing's  not  to  be 
thought  of.  Love's  not  appetite — Love  is  nature, 
and  appetite  is  not  nature,  but  a  cursed  sophistica- 
tion produced  by  all  sorts  of  things,  which  we  may 
classify  for  convenience  as  over-eating.  ^Fed  horses 
in  the  morning!'  Well,  one  of  these  days  the  real 
thing  will  open  to  you — and  then  you'll  have  no 
doubt,  and  no  fears  either.  You'll  go  about  glorify- 
ing God."  He  felt  her  tremble,  and  instantly  re- 
moved his  touch  from  her  shoulder.  He  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  plateau  with  his  feet  dangling.  ^^  Let's 
talk  of  real  things,"  he  continued  after  a  time, ^' not  of 
feelings  and  symptoms.  This  is  one  of  my  gardens — 
but  I  can  show  you  some  more.  Above  this  plateau 
is  another — just  such  another.  I  filled  it  with  Xiphion 
iris — what  we  call  the  English  iris,  although  the  fact 
is  that  it  grows  in  Spain.  It's  done  well — but  is 
nearly  over  now.  I  just  came  in  for  the  last  week  of 
it.  And  of  course  I've  got  hepaticas  and  auriculas 
and  those  sort  of  things  all  over  the  place — this 
mountain's  an  old  haunt  of  mine.  But  my  biggest 
job  in  Cumberland  was  a  glade  of  larkspurs  in  a 


COLLOQUY   IN  THE  HILLS  337 

moraine  of  Scawfell  Pike.  I  surpassed  myself  there. 
Last  year  they  were  a  sight  to  thank  God  for — nine 
feet  high  some  of  them,  Hfting  up  great  four-foot 
blue  torches  off  a  patch  of  emerald  and  gold.  I  lay 
a  whole  morning  in  the  sun,  looking  at  them — and 
then  I  got  up  and  worked  like  the  devil  tj^ll  it  was 
dark.  .  .  . 

^'Some  brutal  beanf casters  from  Manchester  fell 
foul  of  them  soon  after — fell  upon  them  tooth  and 
claw,  trampled  them  out  of  sight — and  gave  me  three 
weeks'  hard  work  this  spring.  But  they  have  recov- 
ered w^onderfully,  and  if  I  have  luck  this  year  I  sha'n't 
fear  even  a  Glasgow  holiday  let  loose  on  them." 

She  was  caressing  the  flowers,  half  kneeling,  half 
lying  by  them.  ^'Go  on,  please,"  she  said  when 
Senhouse  stopped.  "Tell  me  of  some  more  gardens 
of  yours." 

He  needed  no  pressing,  being  full  of  his  subject, 
and  crov/ded  upon  her  his  exploits,  with  all  England 
for  a  garden-plot.  To  her  inexperience  it  seemed 
like  a  fairy  tale,  but  to  her  kindling  inclination  all 
such  wonders  were  fuel,  and  he  could  tell  her  of  noth- 
ing which  did  not  go  to  enhancing  the  magic  in  him- 
self. Peonies,  he  told  her  of,  in  a  Cornish  cove  open- 
ing to  the  sea — a  five  years'  task;  and  a  niche  on  a 
Dartmoor  tor  where  he  had  coaxed  Caucasian  irises 
to  grow  like  wholesome  weeds.  Tamarisks,  like 
bushes  afire,  in  a  sandy  bight  near  Bristol — "I  made 
the  cuttings  myself  from  slips  I  got  in  the  Landes" — 
Wistaria  in  a  curtain  on  the  outskirts  of  an  oak  wood 
in  the  New  Forest.    That  had  been  his  first  essay — 


338  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

ten  years  ago.  ^'You  never  saw  such  a  sight — the 
trees  look  as  if  they  were  alight — wrapped  in  mauve 
flames.  And  never  touched  yet — and  been  there  ten 
years ! 

^'IVe  got  the  little  Tuscan  tulip — clusiana  is  its 
name,  a  pointed,  curving  bud  it  has,  striped  red  and 
white — ^growing  well  on  a  wooded  shore  in  Cornwall; 
I've  got  hepaticas  on  a  Welsh  mountain,  a  pink 
cloud  of  them — and  Pyrennean  auriculas  dropping 
like  rosy  wells  from  a  crag  on  the  Pillar  Rock.  Ain't 
these  things  worth  doing  ?  They  are  worth  all  Chats- 
worth  to  me!" 

She  caught  his  enthusiasm;  her  burning  face,  her 
throbbing  heart  were  but  flowers  of  his  planting. 
Once  more  she  was  splendidly  conscious  of  discov- 
ery, of  unsuspected  distances  seen  from  a  height  and 
once  more  exulted  in  the  strength  which  such  Imowl- 
edge  gave  her.  No  education  could  have  bettered 
this — an  interest  in  life  itself,  in  work  itself.  All  that 
day  she  laboured  by  his  side — digging,  weeding, 
fetching  and  carrying  in  that  sunny  hollow  of  the 
hills.  She  cooked  his  meals  and  waited  upon  him; 
she  grimed  her  hands,  scratched  and  blistered  them, 
tore  her  gown,  blowsed  herself,  was  tired,  but  too 
happy  to  rest.    This,  this  was  life,  indeed. 

Towards  dusk,  after  dinner,  she  was  so  tired  that 
she  could  hardly  keep  her  eyes  open;  and  Senhouse 
who  had  been  watching  her  with  shrewd  amusement, 
bade  her  to  bed.  The  tent  was  at  her  disposal,  while 
she  remained.  Slowly  she  obeyed  him,  unwillingly 
but  without  question.     The  day  was  fading  to  a 


COLLOQUY  IN  THE  HILLS  339 

lovely  close;  night,  as  it  were,  was  drawing  violet 
curtains  over  the  dome  of  the  sky.  The  great  hills 
were  intensely  dark,  and  the  valley  between  them 
and  below  lay  shrouded  in  a  light  veil  of  mist.  It 
was  so  quiet  that  they  could  hear  the  Lingmell  beck 
crisping  over  the  pebbles  or  swishing  between  the 
great  boulders;  and  once  a  fish  leapt  in  a  pool,  and 
the  splash  he  made  was  like  a  smack  on  the  cheek. 

Mary  obeyed  slowly.  She  stood  behind  him  where 
he  sat  watching  all  the  still  wonder  of  the  dusk,  hop- 
ing he  would  speak,  afraid  herself  to  break  the  spell 
of  her  own  thoughts.  She  was  excited,  she  felt  the 
exquisite  luxury  of  ease  after  toil ;  if  she  had  dared 
she  would  have  indulged  her  quivering  senses.  She 
could  deceive  herself  no  more;  she  had  no  need  in 
the  world  which  Senhouse  could  not  satisfy,  and  no 
chance  of  happiness  unless  he  did.  But  she  re- 
spected him  more  than  she  loved  him ;  it  never  entered 
her  head  for  a  moment  that  it  would  be  possible  for 
her  to  draw  such  a  man  on.  Still  she  stayed,  as  if 
unable  to  leave  him;  his  mere  neighbourhood  was 
balm  to  her  fever. 

So  they  remained  for  some  unmeasured  time,  while 
the  silence  became  crushing  and  the  dark  blotted  out 
hill  and  hollow.  She  could  not  hear  her  heart  beat- 
ing, and  the  pulses  in  her  temples.  In  a  manner  she 
was  rapt  in  an  ecstasy:  she  thought  no  more;  she 
was  possessed;  her  happiness  was  at  the  point  of 
bliss. 

Senhouse  sat  on,  motionless,  he,  too,  absorbed  in 
contemplation — like  a  priest  before  his  altar-miracles. 


340  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

He  may  not  have  known  that  she  was  so  close  to  him ; 
or  he  may  have  known  it  very  well.  If  he  did,  he 
showed  no  sign  of  it.  His  thoughts,  whatever  they 
were,  held  him,  as  he  sat,  his  chin  between  his  clasped 
knees,  rigid  as  a  dead  Viking,  crouched  so  in  his 
tomb  of  stones.  His  black,  glazed  eyes  were  fixed 
sombrely  towards  the  shrouded  valley — across  it,  to 
the  mountains  beyond.  So  at  last,  when  her  pleasure 
became  a  pain  so  piercing  that,  had  it  endured  much 
longer,  she  must  have  cried  aloud,  she  shivered  as  she 
clasped  her  hands  together  over  her  breast — and 
then  lightly  let  one  fall  to  touch  his  shoulder. 

She  must  needs  speak  to  him  now.  ^'Do  you  wish 
me  to  go?" 

He  answered  shortly.  "It  will  be  better.  Yes, 
you  had  better  go." 

"Very  well — I  will.  But  to-morrow?  Am  I  to  go 
home  to-morrow?  I  shall  do  exactly  what  you  tell 
me.    You  know  that." 

He  did  not  move,  nor  answer  her  immediately. 
She  hung  upon  his  silence. 

Then  he  said,  "I'm  a  man,  you  know — and  you're 
a  woman.    There's  no  getting  away  from  that." 

"And  you  wish  me ?" 

"I'm  a  compromise — by  my  own  act.  This  is 
Halfway  House.  You  may  rest  here,  you  see — and 
go  on — or  go  back." 

She  could  school  her  voice,  but  not  her  hand  which 
touched  his  shoulder.  She  had  to  move  it  away  be- 
fore she  spoke.    "And  if  I  decide — to  go  on ?" 

"You  must  not — until  you  know  what  it  means. 


COLLOQUY  IN  THE  HILLS  341 

Some  day — possibly — when  you  see — not  feel — your 
way,  it  may  be —  Look  here,"  he  said  abruptly, 
^'we  won't  talk  about  all  this.  I  told  you — in  cold 
blood — what  I  thought  you  ought  to  do.  Go  back 
and  see  Duplessis.  Don't  ask  me  to  reconsider  that 
— in  hot  blood.  I'm  not  myself  at  this  time  of  night. 
I  saw  straight  enough  when  you  put  it  to  me.  I 
value  your  friendship — I'm  proud  of  it.  More  I 
must  not  say.  It  is  something  to  have  made  a  woman 
like  you  trust  me.  That's  too  good  a  thing  to  lose, 
do  you  see  ?  And  I'll  tell  you  this,  too — that  you  may 
trust  me.  If  you  do  as  I  tell  you,  it  will  work  out  all 
right." 

^'Yes,  yes — I  believe  that.  But  you  told  me  this 
morning  to  follow — my  heart." 

^^I  did,  my  dear,  and  I  meant  it.  But  not  what 
your  heart  calls  out  at  midnight." 

She  stood  where  she  was  a  little  longer;  presently 
she  sighed. 

^^I  will  do  as  you  bid  me — because  you  bid  me;" 
and  he  laughed. 

*^  Reason  most  womanish." 

'^  Don't  laugh  at  me  just  now,"  she  said. 

He  folded  his  arms  tightly,  and  stooped  his  head 
towards  them.    "I  daren't  do  anything  else,"  he  told 

her;  "and  I  will  not." 

'  1, 

In  the  dark  she  stretched  out  her  hands  to  him; 
but  soon  she  gave  over,  and  gloried  in  the  strength 
he  had. 

"Good-night,"  she  said;  and  he  answered  her 
without  moving,  "Good-night." 


342 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


She  stole  away  to  his  tent ;  but  he  sat  on  where  he 
was,  far  into  the  night. 

In  the  morning  hght  they  met  as  if  nothing  had 
happened ;  and  after  breakfast  he  took  her  by  Wast- 
water  to  Seascale — to  the  train  for  the  south.  He  s^ 
was  the  old  informal,  chatty  companion,  full  of  queer 
knowledge  and  outspoken  reflections.  He  told  her 
his  plans,  so  far  as  he  could  foresee  them.  He  should 
be  going  to  Cornwall  in  November. 

Then  he  put  her  in  the  train,  and  touched  her 
hand  lightly,  as  his  way  was.  He  looked  into  her 
face,  and  smiled  half  ruefully.  ^' Don't  forget  Half- 
way House,''  he  told  her.  She  could  only  sob,  ^^Oh, 
no!  Oh,  never,  never!"  He  turned  away — waited 
for  the  train  to  move — then  waved  his  hand.  As  the 
train  carried  her  under  the  arch,  and  bent  on  its 
course,  she  had  her  last  glimpse.  He  stood,  white  and 
slim,  against  the  grey  buildings.  She  waved  her 
hand,  and  was  carried  onwards  to  the  south. 


XIII 

THE   SUMMONS 

She  knew  now  that  she  loved  Senhouse,  and  that 
knowledge  filled  her  with  indescribable  triumph, 
and  gave  her  unimagined  strength.  At  the  same 
time,  the  quietude  of  her  new  joy  really  amazed  her. 
She  could  lie  back  in  her  corner  seat  of  the  train  and 
watch  her  flight  to  the  south,  be  conscious  that 
every  thresh  of  the  great  driving  wheels  was  taking 
her  from  her  beloved,  reflect  that  she  could  neither 
write  to  him  nor  hear  from  him — wanderer  that  he 
was,  and  sojourner  in  tents — and  regret  nothing,  and 
long  for  nothing  more  tangible  than  she  possessed 
already.  He  had  her  heart;  she  had  made  her  sur- 
render on  that  night  of  intense  colloquy.  That  had 
been  her  true  bridal  night — by  that  mysterious  inter- 
course she  had  become  his  irrevocably.  A  great  se- 
curity possessed  her,  a  conviction,  which  it  would 
have  been  blasphemous  to  question,  that  all  was 
well.  If  one  had  told  her,  you  and  he  may  never 
meet  again,  she  would  have  laughed  in  his  face  at  the 
absurdity.  Such  a  thing  was  not  worth  argument, 
spelt  its  own  refutation. 

An   immense   content   possessed   her,   a  security 

343 


344  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

which  excused  her  from  looking  back,  and  made  the 
future  indifferent.  She  thought  neither  of  her  hus- 
band with  remorse  nor  of  Duplessis  with  apprehen- 
sion. She  was  not  appalled  by  the  flatness  of  her 
immediate  prospect:  of  a  return  to  town  and  its 
round  of  flurry,  chatter,  and  dress ;  of  Southover  and 
its  autumn  rites.  These  things  were  shadows  of  life: 
the  real  life  was  hidden  in  her  heart.  She  would  send 
her  tricked-out  body  to  dinner.-parties  and  other 
assemblies  of  dolls,  while  she  herself  would  be 
elsewhere,  in  some  blue  immensity  of  air,  breast- 
ing some  great  hill,  breathing  the  breath — which 
was  food — of  her  mother  the  Earth — her  mother! 
Their  mother!  She  and  her  beloved  were  brother 
and  sister.  Entertainment  here,  for  the  flying  miles, 
to  which  the  threshing  wheels  lent  processional 
music. 

If  she  hardly  knew  herself  it  is  no  wonder.  She 
crossed  London  by  rote,  reached  Blackheath,  walked 
sedately  to  her  father's  little  house,  entered  the  little 
dull  door,  and  kissed  her  parents,  whom  she  found 
at  tea — all  in  a  dream.  They  made  much  of  her,  the 
great  lady  she  was  become;  found  it  not  amiss  that 
she  appeared  in  tumbled  gown,  with  soiled  blouse, 
and  hat  remarkable  for  its  unremarkableness.  Great 
ladies  could  do  as  they  pleased,  being  a  law  unto 
themselves.  Nor  were  they  confused  by  her  replies 
to  the  proper  inquiries.  "Mr.  Germain?"  she  said, 
''I  think  he's  very  well.  I  haven't  seen  him  since  I 
left  London.  We  don't  see  much  of  each  other,  you 
know,  Mother."    A  stack  of  forwarded  letters  was 


THE   SUMMONS  345 

indicated,  telegrams  among  them.  She  nodded  her 
head,  and  passed  her  cup  for  some  more  tea. 

She  heard  of  the  girls'  progress — all  out  in  good 
boarding  schools  of  her  providing;  next  of  Jinny's 
triumphs  in  the  Lincolnshire  home  of  the  Pod- 
mores.  "Jinny  has  a  bold  way  with  her,  as  you 
know,  Mary.  They  were  not  inclined  towards  her 
at  first.  There  was  a  question  whether  she  should 
not  pack  up  her  box  again  the  day  after  she  got  there 
— but  Mr.  Podmore — her  Mr.  Podmore — went  on 
his  knees,  on  his  knees,  Mary — and  she  consented  to 
stay.  Very  bold  of  Jinny,  considering  that  old  Mr. 
Podmore  is  a  Rural  Dean " 

Mary  smiled.  The  simple  talk  went  on.  By-and-^ 
by  it  came  out  that  a  visitor  had  called  to  see  Mary 
several  times — a  Mr.  Duplessis,  a  very  tall  young 
man.  "He  came  here  the  evening  we  had  expected 
you,  and  I  thought  the  chimney  was  afire  when  I 
heard  his  knock.  Exactly  like  the  fire  brigade.  I 
opened  the  door  in  a  twitter — and  there  he  was — six 
feet-two  of  him,  and  a  tall  hat  atop  of  that.  "Is  Mrs. 
Germain  at  home?"  he  asks  me,  and  I  say,  "She 
may  be,  for  she's  not  here."  Then  he  says,  "You 
are  Mrs.  Middleham,  I  take  it."  I  tell  him  he  takes 
me  rightly.  "Don't  you  expect  your — Mrs.  Ger- 
main?" I  told  him  the  truth.  "I'll  call  to-morrow," 
he  says — and  he  did,  Mary,  and  to-day,  too.  A 
handsome,  upstanding  young  man — very  much  at 
home  with  the  likes  of  me.  I  suppose — but  you 
know  your  own  business  best,  of  course." 

Mary  stroked  her  mother's  cheek.     "Dear  little 


346  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

old  Mother,"  she  said,  ^'I  know  you're  afraid  for  me. 
Mr.  Duplessis  is  quite  harmless.  I'll  see  him,  if  he 
comes  to-morrow." 

In  the  intervals  of  housework — for  she  insisted 
upon  being  useful — she  wrote  to  her  husband  from 
day  to  day,  telling  him  in  her  first  letter  that  she  had 
been  unable  to  write  before  as  she  had  been  trav- 
elling. On  this  particular  information  he  made  no 
comment  whatsoever;  indeed,  he  confined  himself 
to  such  generalities  as  the  state  of  the  weather,  his 
cold,  "which,  under  medical  advice,  I  am  nursing  at 
home,"  and  the  proceedings  of  Mrs.  James.  ''Con- 
stantia  is  a  great  comfort  to  me.  You  will  be  pleased 
to  hear  that  I  am  not  without  hope  of  inducing  her 
to  prolong  her  visit.  She  speaks  very  kindly  of  you. 
My  brother,  I  regret  to  say,  has  been  called  home  by 
parochial  cares.  .  .  .  The  Cantacutes  dined  here 
last  evening.  I  regretted  that  I  could  not  be  down 
to  receive  them.  However,  Constantia.  ..."  She 
replied  pleasantly  to  all  this,  feeling  not  one  grain  of 
discomfort  out  of  anything  which  Mrs.  James  could 
or  could  not  do.  She  begged  to  be  kept  informed  of 
his  cold.  "You  know  that  I  will  come  to  you  the 
moment  you  care  to  have  me."  In  answer  to  that,  by 
return  of  post,  he  wrote  that  "on  no  account"  must 
she  alter  her  plans.  "Believe  me,  I  am  fully  con- 
tented that  you  should  be  with  your  parents.  It  is, 
I  understand,  reckoned  a  failing  of  the  past  genera- 
tion that  children  should  admit  any  claim  in  them 
who  bore  and  nurtured  them.  Personally,  I  do  not 
pretend  to  be  abreast  of  the  times  in  this  particular; 


THE   SUMMONS  347 

nor  should  I  wish  you  to  be  so.  I  am  assured  that 
there  is  no  cause  for  uneasiness  on  my  account,  and 
will  most  certainly  see  that  you  are  kept  supplied 
with  bulletins.  I  beg  my  sincere  respects  to  your 
father  and  mother." 

After  that  she  heard  nothing  more  from  him. 

Duplessis  had  called  two  days  after  her  arrival, 
but  she  had  been  out,  and  he  had  not  waited.  He 
came  again  after  three  days'  interval — having  writ- 
ten to  announce  his  intention — at  11  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  She  was  on  her  knees,  in  pinned-up  skirt 
and  apron,  her  arms  bare  to  the  elbows,  scrubbing 
the  kitchen  floor,  when  his  knock  resounded  through 
the  house.  The  quick  blood  leapt  into  her  cheeks, 
but  she  held  to  her  task.  Her  mother  came  fluttering 
in.  ^'That's  your  visitor,  Mary.  What  am  I  to  do? 
— and  you  in  such  a  state!" 

^'Show  him  in  here,  Mother,"  says  Mary. 

"Never,  child.    He'll  think  you  demented." 

Mary  was  inflexible;  her  eyes  glittered.  "I  shall 
see  him  nowhere  else,"  she  said. 

Upon  his  second  attack,  a  scared  and  serious  Mrs. 
Middleham  opened  the  door.  Mary,  pausing  in  her 
scrubbing,  heard  the  dialogue. 

"Oh,  good-morning.    Mrs.  Germain?" 

"My  daughter  is  here,  Sir." 

"Oh,  she's  come,  has  she?  Do  you  think  she 
would  see  me?" 

"She  says  so,  Sir.  I  have  asked  her.  But  she 
hopes  you  will  excuse  her  untidiness " 

"Oh,  of  course " 


348  HALFWAY  HOUSE 


J5 


^'She  has  been  kind  enough  to  help  us  here — she 
is  at  work  now.    You  will  please  to  overlook- 

''My  dear  Mrs.  Middleham— 

''If  you  will  follow  me  I  will  show  you  where  she  is." 

Mary  rose  from  her  knees  to  receive  him,  having 
wiped  her  hands  and  arms  on  her  apron.  Her 
cheeks  were  burning  and  her  eyes  alight — but  she 
looked  none  the  worse,  assuredly,  for  that. 

When  Duplessis,  stooping  his  fair  head,  entered 
the  kitchen,  she  came  forward  lightly  to  receive  him. 
''Good-morning,"  she  said.  "You  will  take  me  as 
lam?" 

"I'll  take  you  how  I  can,"  said  Tristram,  shaking 
hands.  "Your  mother  prepared  me  for  this  attack 
of  industry.    You  might  let  me  help  you." 

Mary  laughed.  "Don't  destroy  my  mother's  illu- 
sions. She  is  convinced  of  the  complete  idleness  of 
the  upper  classes.  If  she  lost  that  she  would  have  to 
alter  all  her  ideas  of  society." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  the  upper  classes; 
but  Mrs.  Middleham  can  have  no  notion  how  hard 
/  can  work,"  Duplessis  said.  "I  was  at  it  all  last 
night.    Dancing  till  Heaven  knows  when." 

"I'll  warrant  Heaven  does,"  said  Mrs.  Middle- 
ham to  herself.  She  was  not  able  to  find  anything 
to  say  to  this  magnificent  visitor. 

Duplessis  and  Mary  made  a  fairer  show,  for  she 
had  learned  to  dread,  with  the  high  world,  a  single 
second  of  awkwardness.  She  was  even  able  to  con- 
tinue her  work  on  her  knees  and  chat  with  Tristram, 
who,  for  his  part,  sat  calmly  on  the  kitchen  table  and 


THE   SUMMONS  349 

talked  nineteen  to  the  dozen.  It  is  difficult  to  say 
which  side  of  this  simple  performance  scandalized 
Mrs.  Middleham  the  more — that  Mary  should  be 
on  her  knees  with  a  scrubbing  brush,  or  that  Du- 
plessis  should  not  be.  The  good  blunt  woman  sat  it 
out  as  long  as  her  endurance  would  last,  growing 
more  and  more  stiff  in  the  back,  primming  her  lips 
in  and  in  until  she  showed  none  at  all.  Finally  she 
rose  with  a  ''You  will  excuse  me,"  and  stalked  out  of 
her  own  kitchen.  She  sat  in  the  empty  parlour  and 
looked  at  a  photograph  album  as  a  protest.  Mean- 
while Mary's  hour  had  come.  It  had  been  on  the 
edge  of  her  tongue  to  ask  her  mother  to  stay — but  she 
had  dismissed  the  thought  as  unworthy.  She  fixed 
her  mind  upon  the  plateau  of  Mariposa  lilies,  and 
her  eyes  on  her  work,  and  scrubbed  for  life. 

"Molly,"  said  Duplessis,  "why  did  you  run  away 
from  me?" 

She  elbowed  her  brush  stoutly.  "Because  I  was 
afraid  of  you,"  she  said — then  stopped  and  looked 
up  at  him.  "But  I'm  not  now — not  in  the  least 
afraid." 

"You  need  not  be.  You  wrote  to  me  that  you 
were  coming  on  the  13th." 

"I  know." 

"And  this  is  the  20th,  and  you  are  only  just 
here." 

"No.    I  have  been  here  four  or  five  days." 

"Where  were  you — when  you  were  not  here?" 

"I  was  travelling." 

"  Travellinof  1 " 


350  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

*'Yes.    But  I  decline  to  be  questioned.'' 

"You  mean,  I  suppose,  that  you  will  decline  to 
answer." 

Her  colour  rose.  "You  always  correct  my  lan- 
guage, I  know.  My  exact  meaning  is  that  I  deny 
your  right  to  question  me  about  my  own  affairs." 

"  But  if  they  are  my  affairs,  too  ?  May  I  not  know 
what  you  are  doing  with  them?" 

She  thought.    "Yes — I  suppose  you  may  do  that." 

"Very  well.  Then  I  will  ask  you  why  you  sent 
me  word  that  you  were  to  come  here  on  the  13th  *  by 
train,'  and  then  did  nothing  of  the  sort?" 

On  her  knees  still,  she  faced  him  with  her  answer. 
"Yes,  I  will  answer  that.  When  I  wrote,  I  intended 
to  come — and  expected  that  you  would  meet  me. 
But  when  I  posted  the  letter  I  had  changed  my  mind. 
I  did  not  intend  to  come." 

He  stared,  with  very  cold,  bright  eyes.  "You  did 
not  intend  to  come  when  you  posted  the  letter? 
Pray,  did  you  intend  me  to  expect  you  at  the  station  ?" 

She  answered  him,  "Yes,  I  did  expect  it." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Really,  my  dear  friend, 
you  interest  me  extremely.  Did  you  think  that  six 
hours  or  more  at  Charing  Cross  Station  would  be 
good  for  my  nerves,  morals,  or  constitution?" 

"I  will  tell  you  what  I  thought,"  she  said.  "I 
thought  that  waiting  at  Charing  Cross  would  be  no 
worse — to  say  the  least — for  a  man  than  an  appoint- 
ment in  Burlington  Arcade  could  be  for  a  woman." 

Duplessis  bit  his  cheek.  "That  was  your  gentle 
reproof,  then,  for  my  blunder?" 


THE   SUMMONS  351 

"Yours  was  only  a  blunder  because  I  saw  what  it 
really  was.  It  had  never  entered  your  head  that  I 
could  be  other  than  honoured  to  meet  you  anywhere. 
You  presumed  that  I  should  run  there." 

*^You  ran  very  near  to  it,  my  friend,"  he  said. 
"That  is,  you  had  yourself  driven." 

She  bowed  her  head.  "I  admit  it.  I  was  a  fool — 
but  I  am  not  a  fool  now." 

"No,"  said  Duplessis,  "you  are  not.  You  are,  as 
a  matter  of  truth,  extraordinaril}^  beautiful  just  now, 
and  I  am  more  ridiculously  in  love  with  you  than 
ever.  But—"  She  rose  from  her  knees  and  stood 
before  him. 

"Let  me  finish  what  I  have  to  say  to  you,  please," 
she  said.  "That  was  not  my  only  reason  for  deceiv- 
ing you.  I  wished  you  to  wait  for  me  in  vain,  be- 
cause I  wished  you  to  understand  that  I  could  not 
see  you  any  more.  I  wished  you  to  believe  that  our 
intercourse  must  be  over.  I  chose  the  harshest  means 
I  could  think  of.  I  might  have  written  it,  no  doubt, 
but  you  would  have  answered  the  letter,  and  I  am  no 
match  for  you  in  writing.  I  might  have  seen  you  and 
told  you — but  I  couldn't  do  that." 

"Molly,"  said  Duplessis,  folding  his  arms,  "why 
couldn't  you  see  me?" 

She  looked  down.    "Because  I  couldn't." 

"It  was  because  you  dared  not,"  said  Duplessis. 

She  did  not  answer;  she  was  trembling  a  little 
now,  and  he  saw  it.  But  presently  she  looked  him 
straight  in  the  face. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that  is  true.    I  did  not  dare.'» 


352 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


He  laughed  gaily  and  started  forward  to  take  her; 
but  she  put  her  hand  up. 

^'No,"  she  said,  ^'you  are  mistaken.  I  dared  not 
then,  but  now  I  dare.  I  can  meet  you  now  when- 
ever you  please,  and  have  no  fear  at  all." 

Duplessis,  red  in  the  face,  scowled  and  watched 
her  from  under  savage  brows.  ''Am  I  to  under- 
stand by  that  that  you  have' ceased  to  care?" 

''You  must  understand  that  I  do  not  love  you." 

He  left  the  table  where  he  had  been  sitting  and 
took  a  turn  about  the  room.  Presently  he  stopped  in 
front  of  her.    His  height  gave  him  great  advantage. 

"I  decline  to  take  that  answer.  I  cannot  believe 
that  you  mean  it  seriously.  I  think  that  you  loved 
me  two,  nearly  three  years  ago,  and  that  you  have 
loved  me  of  late  since  last  October — some  nine 
months.  I  know  that  I  have  never  for  a  moment 
ceased  to  love  you.  Through  your  engagement — 
horrible  entanglement  as  it  was — through  your  years 
of  married  life — miserable  eclipse — my  love  has 
gone  on,  my  need  has  increased.  You  know  that; 
you  cannot  doubt  me.  It  was  not  my  doing  that  you 
were  false  to  our  love;  I  couldn't  interfere;  it  was 
begun  without  my  suspicion,  and  all  the  mischief 
done  before  I  could  get  home.  After  that  I  did  my 
honest  best  to  get  on  without  you — and  then  your 
fool  of  a  husband  must  drag  me  in.  What  next? 
The  inevitable,  the  undoubted.  We  two  were  drawn 
together:  it* had  to  be.  And  now  you  ask  me  to  be- 
lieve that — for  no  reason  at  all — it  must  stop.  My 
dear  girl,  you  can't  swap  horses  crossing  the  stream, 


THE   SUMMONS  353 

you  know.  I  decline  to  be  switched  off  like  so  much 
electric  current.    Who's  the  other  man?" 

This  surprising  turn  to  his  speech  nearly  threw 
her  off  her  pedestal.  But  she  could  answer  him 
truthfully. 

''There  is  no  question  of  caprice  or  of  other  people 
at  all.  The  real  truth  is  that  I  have  grown  wiser.  I 
know  now  that  I  was  losing  my  self-respect  by  per- 
mitting you  to  love  me  as  you  did — in  the  manner 
you  saw  fit  to  use.  It  was  not  love  at  all — you  had 
got  into  the  habit  of  considering  me  as  your  property, 
and  you  could  not  bear  that  anybody  else  should 
claim  a  right  to  me.  Directly  I  saw  that,  I  knew  that 
I  couldn't  allow  myself  to  think  of  you,  to  be  with  you 
— if  I  was  to  be — if  I  could  hope  to  hold  up  my  head." 

He  was  very  angry.  "May  I  know  what,  or  who, 
enabled  you  to  see  this  unfortunate  aspect  of  my 
affairs?" 

''I  can't  tell  you  that,"  she  said.  "It  came  to  me 
suddenly.  I  think  your  asking  me  to  meet  you  in  such 
an  extraordinary  place  had  something  to  do  with  it." 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  that,"  he  said  at  once. 
"Honestly  and  sincerely  I  am  ashamed  of  that. 
Only  it  is  fair  to  say  that  I  meant  no  possible  dis- 
respect to  you.  I  couldn't  well  meet  you  in  your  own 
house.  The  weather  was  beastly — I  thought  we 
could  discuss  our  plans — and  might  as  well  do  it 
under  a  glass  cover  as  under  umbrellas.  We  might 
have  been  there  five  minutes.  Really,  I  can't  admit 
that  the  base  is  broad  enough  to  hold  all  the  super- 
structure." 


354  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

^^It  was  nothing,"  she  admitted;  ''I  was  only 
offended  for  a  moment — and  of  course  if  I  had  still 
been  nursery  governess  I  should  have  gone,  without 
a  question.  I  should  have  been  flattered,  I  am  sure. 
But — ah,  surely  you  can  be  honest  with  yourself, 
surely  you  know  what  it  is  you  want  of  me.  Why,. 
if  I  could  bring  myself — would  it  be  worthy  of  you 
to — ?"  She  broke  off,  impatient  at  the  hopelessness 
of  convincing  him.  ^'Mr.  Duplessis,"  she  said,  and 
he  frowned  at  the  style,  ''I  have  been  wicked,  I 
think — at  least,  I  have  been  so  foolish  that  I  can 
hardly  believe  it  was  I.  I  am  sure  you  won't  be  so 
ungenerous  as  to  pin  me  down  to  a  mistake.  I  beg 
you  to  take  what  I  say  now — as  I  mean  it." 

Looking  up  at  him,  she  saw  that  she  had  made  no 
way.  The  more  she  said,  she  could  see,  the  greater 
the  fire  in  the  man.  He  stooped  right  over  her,  and 
she  could  hear  the  fever  in  his  voice. 

'^My  love,  my  adorable  love — I  shall  never  give 
you  up — never — never " 

She  cowered.    ^'Ah,  be  merciful " 

He  said,  ^^My  mercy  shall  be  my  love  and  ser- 
vice"— and  took  her  hands. 

She  strained  away — she  turned  her  head — "No, 
no,"  she  murmured,  "I  implore  you."  But  he  drew 
her  in — "My  beloved — my  darling " 

The  street  knocker  clamoured — a  double  call — 
and  as  he  started  she  sprang  back  to  the  wall,  and 
gained  the  door.  She  went  down  the  passage  and 
met  her  mother  with  a  telegram  in  her  hand.  "For 
you,  Mary.    No  bad  news,  I  hope." 


THE   SUMMONS  355 

Mary  read.  "Think  it  would  be  well  if  you  could 
come  to-day. — Constantia  Germain." 

She  had  not  heard  from  Hill-street  for  three  days. 
Yes,  certainly  she  must  go. 

"Mother,  I  must  go  home  immediately.  Mr. 
Duplessis  will  take  me.    I'll  tell  him  to  wait." 

She  returned  to  the  kitchen ;  Duplessis  was  biting 
his  cheek  leaning  against  the  table  with  folded  arms. 
His  breath  was  still  quick. 

"Mr.  Duplessis,"  said  she,  "I  have  had  a  tele- 
gram from  home — from  Mrs.  James.  My  husband 
is  ill  and  I  must  go  to  him.  Will  you  take  me,  please  ?" 

He  jumped  forward.  "Of  course.  I'm  very  sorry. 
I'll  do  everything.  Go  and  get  ready — I'll  find  a 
cab." 


XIV 

VIGIL 

A  SHADQW,  not  hers,  which  moved,  kept  Mary 
silently  employed.  She  was  watching  it.  She  was 
not  conscious  of  having  spoken  a  single  word  from 
the  moment  of  farewell  to  her  mother  until  her  arrival 
at  Hill-street.  Duplessis  had  accompanied  her  from 
door  to  door.  She  cannot  have  been  aware  of  it,  or 
she  would  have  dismissed  him  at  Victoria. 

Not  that  he  had  been  obtrusive — far  otherwise. 
He  saw  to  everything,  and  what  conversation  there 
had  been,  he  had  made  it.  She  might  have  been 
grateful  to  him  for  all  this,  had  she  observed  it.  Once 
only  had  a  cry  escaped  her.  "He  is  dying.  He  will 
die  thinking  me  wicked.    What  shall  I  do?'' 

He  had  answered  her.  "No.  He  is  a  just  man. 
You  have  nothing  you  need  fear  to  tell  him." 

"He  is  dying,"  she  repeated,  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  dun  waste  of  houses  and  chimney-stacks.  Du- 
plessis could  not  doubt  this.  It  seemed  as  certain 
to  him  as  to  her.  He,  too,  discerned  the  moving 
shadow. 

As  he  helped  her  out  of  the  cab  in  Hill-street  the 

carriage  came  quickly  up  and  the  Rector  of  Misper- 

356 


VIGIL  357 

ton  in  it.  He  and  she  met  on  the  pavement.  Du- 
plessis  hfted  his  hat,  re-entered  the  cab  and  departed 
— seen,  therefore,  by  the  Rector,  by  Musters,  and  the 
carriage-groom,  and  by  the  stately  butler  and  his 
familiar  at  the  open  door.  She  and  James  Germain 
went  up  the  steps  without  greeting.  As  she  went 
straightforward  to  the  stairs  she  heard  the  Rector's 
inquiry,  "Well,  Greatorex?"  and  Greatorex's  reply, 
"The  doctors  are  there.  Sir.    There  is  no  change." 

She  went  lightly  up  the  stair,  to  the  door  of  her 
husband's  room;  she  knocked  lightly.  A  nurse 
opened.    "Who  is  it,  please!    I  don't  think " 

"I  am  Mrs.  Germain.    I  must  come  in." 

Mrs.  James,  the  doctrine  of  the  Soul's  immor- 
tality lambent  upon  her  features,  stood  by  the  window 
talking  in  whispers  to  a  great  physician.  Another, 
equally  imposing,  was  by  the  bed,  his  hand  on  the 
sick  man's  pulse.  At  Mary's  entry  the  lady  broke 
away  and  came  towards  her.  The  light  of  conflict 
was  in  her  eyes,  tight  upon  her  lips;  she  was  pre- 
pared for  reproof  in  any  form — but  none  came. 
Mary  did  not  see  her.  She  walked  past  her  on  tip- 
toe, to  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  sat  herself  in  a  chair 
which  stood  there,  and  looked  at  the  shadow  which 
was  not  her  own.  It  hovered,  now,  moved  no  more. 
Sir  Lambton  Tweedale,  his  investigation  ended, 
joined  his  colleague  by  the  window. 

Mary  thought  that  he  was  dead.  He  lay  on  his  back 
with  nearly  closed  eyes,  and  she  could  discern  no 
movement  for  breath.  His  face  was  colourless,  and 
so  frail,  so  diaphanous  did  he  look,  she  thought  that 


-c8  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

she  could  see  the  colour  of  his  eyes  through  the  lids, 
a  haunting  thought.  He  seemed  to  be  watching  her 
through  them,  as  if  they  were  a  thin  veil — to  be  read- 
ing her,  whether  guilty  or  not.  Of  pity  for  him  lying 
there  so  noble,  so  patient,  and  so  fordone;  of  awe 
before  his  remoteness  from  her  lot,  his  immortal 
indifference ;  of  remorse  for  what  had  been,  or  a  shud- 
der for  what  might  have  been — she  had  none.  But 
her  eyes  watched  him  intently,  with  a  new  power  in 
them,  a  fierce  and  feverish  light — as  if  she  had  the 
will  and  the  means  to  draw  the  dead  back  to  life. 
For  one  half-hour  only,  to  fulfil  one  need.  He  must 
hear  her  tell  him  her  story;  and  then  he  might  die 
in  peace. 

One  of  the  great  pair  came  to  where  she  sat  on  the 
watch,  and  bowed.    "Mrs.  Germain,  I  think?'' 

She  nodded  sharply,  without  turning  her  eyes. 

"I  could — we  could — have  wished  that  you  had 
received  earlier  notice  of  this  serious  turn.  It  seems 
to  have  been  Mr.  Germain's  express  desire  that  you 
should  not  be  needlessly  alarmed.  He  was  perfectly 
conscious  and  master  of  himself  twenty-four  hours 
ago.  But  a  great  change  took  place  yesterday  after- 
noon, it  appears.  Neither  Sir  Lambton  nor  myself 
can  be  held  answerable  for " 

She  stopped  him  by  an  impatient  movement  of 
her  head.    ''Do  you  think  he  is — in  danger?" 

"Undoubtedly.  It  is  right  that  you  should  know 
that  it  is  serious." 

"He  will  die?" 

"Ah,  we  must  not  say  that." 


VIGIL  359 

She  looked  him  through  and  through.  "Then  he 
is  not  dead?" 

"No,  no." 

"Thank  you.    That  is  all  I  want  to  know." 

The  learned  pair  went  out  together  and  Mrs. 
James  with  them.  The  nurse  remained — to  drink 
her  tea  and  hover.  She  was  very  ready  with  whis- 
pers; but  Mary  sat,  with  fixed,  intense  eyes,  willing 
her  husband  to  live,  and  asked  for  no  details.  By- 
and-by  the  Rector  came  in  on  noiseless  feet  and 
stood  by  her.  Between  these  two  there  had  always 
been  sympathy;  generosity  on  his  part  repaid  with 
gratitude  on  hers.  But  now  she  would  not  turn  her 
head.  Nor  even,  when  she  felt  his  hand  touch  gently 
on  her  shoulder  and  stay  there,  could  she  bring  her- 
self to  acknowledge  the  kindly  act. 

He  remained  by  her  so  for  a  long  time.  Then, 
"My  child,"  he  said,  "have  you  had  any  tea?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  thank  you.  I  don't 
want  any." 

"It  could  be  brought  you  here." 

"No,  thank  you." 

"You  must  be  brave,  Mary." 

Ah,  she  knew  that!    "I  must,  indeed,"  she  said. 

"Remember,  please,  that  I  knew  of  this  no  sooner 
than  you  did." 

She  started,  she  flushed.  What  did  this  mean, 
then  ?  Was  it  possible  that  Mrs.  James — for  reasons 
— Ah,  and  if  it  was,  did  it  matter?  Did  anything 
matter?  Only  one  thing — and  that  was  of  her  pro- 
vision.   She  resumed  her  hungr}^,  patient  watch. 


360  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

The  Rector  still  stood  by  her,  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

''Be  patient,  my  dear.  Trust  the  future  to  the 
good  God." 

She  said,  ''I  do.  But  he  will  not  die  yet.  I  am 
sure." 

''Ah,  my  dear — "  he  began,  in  his  despair.  But 
she  spoke  on  vehemently. 

"He  cannot — he  will  not.  He  will  know  me  again 
presently — and  speak  to  me.  That  is  necessary  for  us 
both.  We  have  things  to  talk  about.  Then  he  will 
die." 

The  Rector  shrank.  "You  talk  strangely.  What 
do  we  know?  My  dear  old  brother!  .  .  .  Will  you 
not  come  and  rest — after  your — ?"  He  stopped 
there,  and  she  understood  his  reason. 

"I'm  not  at  all  tired,"  she  told  him.  "I  shall  sit 
here  until  he  wakes,  and  knows  me.  I  can  rest  here 
quite  well.  I  don't  want  any  food  or  anything." 
The  Rector  urged  her  no  more,  and  presently  left  her. 

She  sat  on  through  the  dinner-hour,  the  change  of 
nurses,  motionless  and  absorbed.  Once  the  patient 
stirred,  sighed,  muttered  with  his  lips.  Listening  to 
him,  breathless  herself,  she  could  now  hear  his  breath 
— so  short  and  light  it  was  that  she  must  have  over- 
looked it  all  these  hours.  From  this  time  onwards 
through  the  ministrations  of  the  night-nurse,  through 
visits  of  the  Rector,  through  ominous  absence  of  visits 
from  the  Rector's  wife,  through  the  bustling  entry  of 
Dr.  Goodlake  and  his  voluble  explanations — double 
pneumonia — absence  of  will-effort — and  the  like — 


VIGIL  3&I 

she  was  in  a  fever  of  hope  and  anticipation,  waiting, 
like  one  tense  at  the  starting-post,  for  the  signal. 

At  midnight  Mr.  Germain  stirred  and  began  to 
moan,  regularly,  hopelessly,  in  a  way  to  break  your 
heart.  This,  too,  her  certainty  gave  her  the  heart  to 
endure.  Such  nourishment  as  he  could  be  given  set 
him  wandering.  He  spoke  ramblingly — often  of  her 
— cited  scripture — ^^My  darling  from  the  lions,"  she 
caught ;  and  "the  lion  and  the  dragon  shalt  thou  tread 
under  thy  feet."  Once  he  cried  aloud,  "Ha!  Tell  Wil- 
braham  I  will  not  see  him — "  and  again,  moaning, 
"No,  no,  it  is  untrue — it  cannot  be  true."  There 
followed  a  time  of  broken  sleep — at  three  o'clock, 
with  a  grey  line  of  light  between  the  curtains,  she  saw 
his  open  eyes  fixed  earnestly  upon  her. 

She  was  on  her  knees  by  the  bed  in  a  moment. 
**I  am  here,"  she  said.    "Do  you  know  me?" 

His  lips  moved,  "Yes." 

"I  was  at  home  when  I  heard  of  your  illness — but 
I  did  not  go  home  when  I  left  you.  I  went  to  the 
north  to  consult  a  friend — about  myself.  Do  you 
hear  me  ?    Can  you  hear  me  ?  " 

Again  he  sighed  "Yes."  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
hers — with  interest,  she  thought — but  without  any 
judgment.    The  night-nurse  discreetly  left  the  room. 

She  asked  his  patience,  and  plunged  into  her 
story — her  story  and  his  own,  with  Tristram's  part 
interwoven.  "There  was  one  who  used  to  see  me," 
was  her  way  of  bringing  in  Duplessis,  and  after  that 
Tristram  was  "he"  throughout.  She  would  not  use 
his  name;  felt  she  could  not,  and  knew  that  she  need 


362  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

not.  Full  understanding  lay  behind  those  unwinking, 
charged  eyes,  terribly  watchful  and  indifferent  to  any- 
thing but  curiosity.  She  sav/  them  as  the  patient  eyes 
of  an  investigator,  expectant  of  a  final  experiment. 
*'I  have  studied  this  case  for  three  years — nov/,  at 
last,  I  am  to  have  it."  He  knew  everything — had 
known  everything  from  the  beginning:  she  had  no 
news  for  him;  ^^how  she  would  put  it,"  was  what  he 
was  waiting  for — for  that  only  she  had  drawn  him 
back  to  life. 

This  knowledge,  this  realization  drove  her  to  can- 
dour past  belief.  She  felt  as  if  she  was  stripping  her- 
self for  public  exhibition — found  herself  talking  in 
a  dry  voice  of  lovers'  intimacies  and  of  still  more  secret 
things — of  things  which  women  feel  but  do  not  even 
think.  She  had  to  examine  herself  unflinchingly  dur- 
ing this  confession,  which  reduced  itself,  for  lack  of 
matter,  to  one  of  motives.  In  the  course  of  it  she 
had  to  face  a  fact  never  faced  before  only  felt.  She 
could  not  love  Tristram,  she  did  not  love  Germain — 
whom,  then,  did  she  love?  The  fine  colour  flushed 
her  cheeks,  the  true  light  flamed  in  her  eyes  as  she 
told  herself — and  then  told  her  husband. 

^'I  know  myself  now.  There  is  one  man  who 
could  do  with  me  as  he  pleased.  But  he  will  do  noth- 
ing with  me.  I  trust  him  utterly ;  he  has  changed  me. 
He  has  given  me  a  soul,  I  think.  He  has  taught  me 
the  worth  of  things  which  I  never  valued  before ;  and 
what  life  is,  and  happiness,  and  truth.  It  is  through 
him  that  I  went  home  and  faced  what  I  was  afraid  of 
— left  him  and  all  the  wonderful  things  he  could  make 


VIGIL  363 

me  see.  I  might  never  see  him  again — but  I  left  him. 
I  am  doing  what  he  would  wish  now  in  telling  you 
all  this.  Untruth  is  impossible  to  him,  and  rnust  never 
be  possible  to  me  again.  That  is  why  I  have  waited 
here  to  tell  you.  I  had  to  tell  you — I  had  to  tell  my- 
self.   Now  I  have  told  you  everything '* 

She  stopped  there  because  she  felt  that  if  she  were 
to  go  on  she  would  have  to  be  insincere.  Contrition 
for  what  she  had  done  and  allowed  to  be  done  in  the 
days  of  her  blank  ignorance,  prayers  for  forgiveness, 
promises  of  amendment — such  things,  proper  for  bed- 
side confession — what  would  they  imply,  what  in- 
volve? That  she  loved  this  poor  watcher?  Alas! 
Pity  might  have  urged  her  to  deceive  him  so;  but 
she  dared  not  deceive  him — and,  moreover,  she  was 
certain  that  he  could  not  now  be  deceived.  The  light 
of  another  world  shone  upon  him,  shone  through  him, 
and  enabled  him  to  read  hearts.  She  did  not  shrink 
from  this  supernatural  power  of  his — if  it  had  been 
profitable  she  would  have  given  him  her  life-blood. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  clear  as  daylight  that  the  utmost 
she  could  do  for  him  had  now  been  done — when  she 
had  discharged  her  conscience  before  him,  and 
cleared  her  honour.  She  believed  that  he  would  feel 
himself  honoured  by  that  act;  and  as  she  stooped 
over  him  to  kiss  him  she  told  him  as  much. 

^^It  is  kind  of  you  to  have  listened  to  me.  You 
have  done  me  so  much  honour,  so  much  kindness — 
but  this  is  the  greatest  you  have  ever  done  me.  Do 
you  understand  that  I  feel  it  so?"  For  a  moment 
his  terrible  intelligence  pored  upon  her  as  she  hung 


304 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


over  his  bed.  It  searched  her,  explored  her,  wondered, 
judged.  A  flicker  of  a  smile — a  momentary  relaxa- 
tion of  his  rigid  lips — a  faint  wavering  of  his  attention ; 
then  he  sighed,  and  closed  his  eyelids  down.  The 
strain  was  over,  she  had  been  heard,  assessed,  ac- 
quitted. When  the  night-nurse  came  in  she  found 
the  patient  at  peace,  and  Mary  Germain  crouched 
on  the  floor  asleep,  her  head  upon  the  edge  of  the 
bed. 


XV 

THE  DEAD  HAND 

Her  calmness,  which  was  not  the  stupor  of  grief, 
from  this  point  onwards  shocked  her  friend  and 
disturbed  her  enemy  in  the  house.  The  Rector 
could  not  but  feel  it  a  slight  upon  his  dead  brother 
and  an  attitude  most  unbecoming  to  so  young  a 
widow;  but  Mrs.  James  was  made  uncomfortable 
by  an  attitude  for  which  she  had  not  been  prepared. 
Whatever  the  girl's  faults  may  have  been,  she  had 
never  been  brazen.  Why,  then,  was  she  brazen  now  ? 
Why  almost — yes,  indecent  in  her  indifference? 
Mary  proposed  nothing,  objected  to  nothing;  took 
no  part  in  the  funeral  arrangements,  answered  no  let- 
ters, read  none,  allowed  her  sister-in-law  entire  con- 
trol, sank  back,  with  evident  contentment,  to  be  the 
cipher  in  her  own  house,  which,  of  course,  she  ought 
to  have  been  from  the  first.  There  was  something 
behind  all  this;  Mrs.  James  was  far  too  intelligent  to 
misread  it.  This  did  not  mean  that  Mary  was  over- 
whelmed— by  grief,  or  shame,  either;  it  did  not 
mean  that  she  felt  herself  in  disgrace.  No.  This  was 
impudence — colossal. 

The  Rector,  to  whom  this  reading  of  the  girl  was 

365 


366  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

propounded,  could  not  deny  it  colour.  ^' She's  very 
young  to  have  such  troubles  upon  her,  and  of  course 
she's  still  very  ignorant.  She  can't  express  herself. 
I  don't  at  all  agree  v^ith  you,  Constantia;  but  I  own 
I  should  have  preferred  to  see  her  in  tears." 

''Why  should  she  cry,  pray?  She  has  all  that  she 
wants — a  sure  income  and  her  liberty.  At  least,  that 
is  what  she  supposes;  but  we  shall  see." 

''You  paint  your  devils  so  impossibly  black,  my 
dear,"  said  the  Rector,  "that  really  they  refute  them- 
selves. I  am  sorry  to  have  to  say  it,  but  you  are  incap- 
able of  being  just  to  this  poor  girl.  However,  as  I 
own,  tears  had  been  a  sign  of  grace." 

Certainly  she  shed  no  tears,  that  any  one  could 
see.  She  was  frequently  in  her  room  alone,  and  may 
have  cried  there.  The  Rector  made  advances,  by 
look,  by  gesture,  even  bywords.  He  was  not  an  effusive 
man ;  would  sooner  have  died  than  have  invited  any- 
body to  pray  with  him — but  for  all  that  he  did  put 
himself  in  her  way,  heart  in  hand,  so  to  speak — and 
when  she  gently  disregarded  him  he  felt  chilly. 

She  did  not  attend  the  funeral,  nor  did  she  choose, 
though  she  was  urged,  to  be  present  at  the  reading  of 
the  will.  She  told  the  Rector,  who  pressed  this  duty 
upon  her,  that  she  couldn't  oblige  him.  "Please 
don't  ask  me  to  do  that.  I  have  nothing  to  expect — 
and  if  he  had  left  me  anything  I  should  have  to  think 
about  it  very  seriously.  He  took  me  from  nothing; 
I  brought  him  nothing ;  he  has  done  more  for  me, 
and  allowed  me  to  do  more  for  my  parents  than  I 
could  ever  have  asked — even  of  him.     I  make  no 


THE  DEAD   HAND  367 

claims  at  all,  and  have  no  expectations.  I  have  never 
thought  about  such  things " 

'^Naturally,  my  child,  naturally  not.  But — after 
such  a  shock  as  this — after  the  first  pang  of  loss — it 
is  wise  to  think  of  the  future.  You  had  no  settlement, 
you  know.'* 

''How  could  I?"  she  asked  simply.  He  smiled  at 
the  question. 

''Well,  my  dear,  v^^ell.  Your  parents  might  rea- 
sonably have  looked — my  dear  brother  was  very  im- 
pulsive in  some  ways — I  can't  doubt  but  that  he 
intended  to  make  proper  provision.  But  he  kept 
his  affairs  very  much  to  himself — too  much.  How- 
ever, at  such  a  time — to  judge  the  beloved  dead — ! 
No,  no.    For  the  same  reason  I  can't  press  you " 

"No — please  do  not,"  she  said,  and  turned  to  the 
window.    He  left  her. 

The  will,  then,  was  read  before  the  Rector  and 
Mrs.  James,  Miss  Germain,  and  Miss  Hester  Ger- 
main, and  produced  its  effect.  It  bore  the  date  of 
a  month  before  the  testator's  second  marriage  and 
was  expressed  to  be  made  in  view  of  that  coming 
ceremony,  and  to  take  the  place  of  any  settlement. 
It  left  her  Porchfield  House  in  Farlingbridge,  "oth- 
erwise known  as  the  Dowry  House,"  with  all  its  fur- 
niture and  household  gear,  and  three  thousand 
pounds  a  year  charged  upon  his  Southover  estate 
"so  long  as  she  remain  chaste  and  unmarried."  Mr. 
Dockwra,  solicitor,  slurred  his  phrase,  excusing  it. 
Mrs.  James  liked  it  extremely.  In  the  case  of  re- 
marriage, Mary  was  to  have  five  hundred  pounds. 


368  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

That  was  all,  said  Mr.  Dockwra,  so  far  as  Mrs. 
Germain  was  concerned ;  and  he  only  said  this  much 
because  he  was  asked  by  Mrs.  James  Germain  if 
there  was  no  further  reference  to  her.  For  the  rest 
the  deceased  gave  handsome  legacies  to  his  sisters, 
though  they  were  otherwise  provided  for,  and  liberal 
remembrances  to  his  servants — annuities  calculated 
upon  their  years  of  service;  and  referred  to  the  fact 
that  the  Southover  property  and  the  London  prop- 
erty alike  were  in  strict  settlement  upon  his  own  chil- 
dren, should  he  have  any,  and,  failing  them,  upon 
his  brother  James. 

Mr.  Dockwra  then  produced  a  small  bundle  of 
papers.  ^' There  was  a  codicil,"  he  said,  "which 
bore  date  the  26th  of  August — a  week  before  Mr. 
Germain's  wedding.  By  this  document  he  left  five 
liundred  a  year  to  "my  cousin  Tristram  Duplessis," 
so  long  as  he  remained  unmarried.  Thus  tersely  ex- 
pressed, the  Rector  started  as  if  he  had  been  shot, 
and  his  wife  compressed  her  lips. 

"I  think  that  I  should  explain,"  said  Mr.  Dock- 
wra, "that  this  codicil  was  not  drawn  by  me,  and 
that  I  had  no  knowledge  of  its  existence  until  the  day 
after  Mr.  Germain's  death.  Mr.  James  Germain, 
however,  as  executor,  handed  me  then  the  sealed 
envelope  containing  it.  That  envelope  contained  one 
other  paper — a  telegram,  which  (as  it  has  no  obvious 
reference  to  the  disposition)  may  have  been  put  there 
by  oversight.    I  shall  hand  it  now  to  Mr.  Germain." 

The  Rector  took  it,  opened  it,  looked  at  it,  and 
raised  his  eyebrows.    Presently  he  put  it  quietly  on 


THE  DEAD   HAND  369 

the  table  before  him.  Mrs.  James,  without  turning 
her  head,  read  it.  It  was  very  short — Middleham, 
Hill-street,  Berkeley-square — Look  out.  Mrs.  James 
smiled  at  her  thoughts — and  presently  left  the  room. 

Mary  must  now  be  told  what  she  had  not  cared  to 
hear.  The  Rector  broke  her  the  contents  of  the  will 
but  said  nothing  of  the  codicil.  He  had  not  asked  his 
wife  the  meaning  of  that  second  document,  and  did 
not  mean  to.  It  pointed  to  a  domestic  mystery.  With- 
out being  a  prude,  all  such  matters  were  distasteful 
to  him. 

He  was  very  kind,  as  he  had  always  been.  "You 
wiU  be  very  comfortably  left,  you  see,  Mary,"  he 
said,  "at  any  rate,  let  us  say,  while  you  are  looking 
about  you." 

Mary  had  shown  no  more  than  a  polite  interest  in 
his  report.  Three  thousand  a  year?  Porchfield? 
She  may  have  been  dazed,  but  she  certainly  was  not 
dazzled.  James  Germain  reflected  to  himself  on  the 
ease  with  which  one  gets  acclimatized.  Little  more 
than  two  years  ago  this  child  was  working  hard  for 
sixty  pounds  a  year;  now  she  hears  that  she  is  se- 
cured three  thousand — without  moving  a  muscle. 

"I  need  not  tell  you,"  he  went  on,  "that  your 
home  is  here  or  at  Southover  for  any  length  of  time 
convenient  to  you.  Indeed,  I  am  sure  I  might  include 
the  Rectory  in  my  general  invitation.  We  have  been 
so  nearly  related;  I  could  not  bear  to  think  the  tie 
severed  by  my  dear  brother's  death.  Apart  from 
that,  we  have  learned  to  love  each  other,  I  hope.  I 
shall  always  look  upon  you  as  one  of  us — if  you  will 


370 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


let  me;  and  your  settlement  at  Porchfield  will  be  a 
reason  the  more  to  keep  me  at  Southover.'* 

*'That  is  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Germain,"  Mary 
said — but  without  enthusiasm.  After  a  few  more 
efforts,  the  worthy  man  left  her  alone. 

It  was  then  Mrs.  James's  turn.  She  came  in, 
after  knocking,  with  the  telegram  in  her  hand. 

"This,  I  think,  belongs  to  you,"  she  said. 

Mary  took  it,  read  it,  and  remembered.  A  quick 
flush  of  colour  showed  that  she  did. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "but  it  is  of  no  importance  now." 
And  she  tore  it  across. 

But  Mrs.  James  was  not  to  be  balked.  "You 
must  allow  me  to  explain  its  importance.  It  was 
found  in  the  envelope  containing  the  codicil  to  my 
dear  brother's  will — a  codicil  which  he  made  within 
two  days  of  your  receiving  it." 

Mary,  still  looking  out  of  the  window,  commented 
idly.  A  codicil  ?  Was  there  a  codicil  ?  That  meant 
that  you  changed  your  mind,  didn't  it? 

"In  this  case,"  said  Mrs.  James,  "it  means,  I 
think,  that  my  dear  brother  explained  his  mind.  I 
thought  that  the  Rector  might  have  informed  you." 

"No,"  said  Mary.  Mrs.  James  cleared  her  throat 
and  began  to  enjoy  herself. 

"By  that  he  left  five  hundred  a  year  to  my  cousin 
Tristram  Duplessis — so  long  as  he  remained  un- 
married." 

Mary  was  puzzled  at  first.  She  knew  by  the 
speaker's  tone  that  she  was  in  disgrace — and  con- 
nected it  with  Duplessis  at  the  mention  of  his  name. 


ii 


THE  DEAD   HAND  371 

She  stared  at  the  bitterly  incisive  lady.  "Mr.  Du- 
plessis — five  hundred — if  he  doesn't  marry?  What 
has  that  to  do  with — ?"  She  stopped — her  eyes 
widened  and  deepened — showed  fathomless.  "Ah!" 
she  said,  and  picked  up  the  torn  paper.  She  read  the 
date,  August  24th.  "What  did  you  say  was  the 
dateof  the  will? '^ 

It  was  a  codicil,"  said  Mrs.  James. 
The  date,  please,  the  date,"  Mary  asked  her, 
fretfully. 

"It  was  dated  the  26th  of  August." 

Jinny's  birthday!  Mary  remembered  it  perfectly. 
He  had  had  tea  with  the  tw^o  of  them,  and  she  had 
clung  to  him  afterwards,  with  a  confession  on  the  tip 
of  her  tongue.  He  had  never  been  more  loving  to 
her  than  on  that  afternoon — and  he  had  Jinny's 
telegram  in  his  pocket — in  his  breast  pocket — while 
she  had  clung  sobbing  to  his  breast!  And  he  had 
left  her  that  evening,  full  of  love,  as  he  had  seemed 
to  be,  and  gone  home  and  tied  Tristram  by  the  leg. 
Ah — ^so  he  had  known  everything — always!  Before 
that  night  at  Exeter — he  had  known  it  from  the  be- 
ginning. 

She  sat  very  still — the  telegram  in  her  lap — and 
her  eyes  cast  down,  as  she  played  idly  with  the 
pieces,  lifting  them  up  and  letting  them  fall.  The 
triumphant  foe  could  see  nothing  but  her  heavy  eye- 
lids, and  the  fringe  of  her  lashes  curving  upwards  as 
they  brushed  her  cheeks.  If  she  expected  victory  she 
was  to  be  disappointed. 

"I  am  glad  you    sent   him   my  telegram,"   she 


372  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

said.     ^'I  am  glad  he  knew  about  Mr.  Duplessis 
and  me." 

Mrs.  James  lifted  her  head.  "It  was  certainly 
advisable  that  he  should  be  told.  Personally,  I  could 
not  interfere.    I  told  him  nothing  that  may  have 

presented  itself  to  me " 

"No,"  said  Mary,  "of  course  not.  It  was  no 
business  of  yours."    Mrs.  James  jumped. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  it  was  very  much  a  business 
of  yours^  if  you  will  forgive  me." 

"It  was,"  Mary  said.  "And  I  told  him  all  about 
it." 

Mrs.  James  started.  "I  told  him,"  Mary  said, 
"on  the  night  he  died.    He  quite  understood." 

"It  is  horrible  to  me,"  cried  Mrs.  James,  "that 
he  was  kept  in  the  dark  so  long." 

"He  wasn^t  at  all  in  the  dark,"  Mary  said.  "That 
is  plain  now.    I  wish  that  I  had  known  it  before." 

"You  may  well  say  so.  Apart  from  candour, 
apart  from  sincerity,  surely  it  is  the  sacred  duty  of  a 
married  woman  to  have  no  secrets  from  her  hus- 
band." 

Mary  looked  up.  She  had  the  eyes  of  a  woman 
acquainted  with  grief.  "I  am  not  a  married  wom- 
an," she  said.    "I  fancy  that  you  must  know  it." 


XVI 

WINGS 

The  tale  of  Germain's  posthumous  disposition  of 
his  chattels  ran,  as  such  tales  will,  all  about  town, 
and  lost  nothing  in  the  running.  Women  took  it 
complacently,  after  their  kind.  Of  course  it  was 
odd ;  and  yet,  in  its  way,  was  it  not  a  tribute  ?  One 
or  two  pretty  young  wives  told  each  other  that  it  was 
touching ;  a  Miss  Lavender  shed  tears.  In  the  clubs 
they  said  plainly  that  Duplessis  had  been  bought 
off.  Palmer  Lovell,  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace, 
cried  out  in  his  strident  boy's  voice,  ^^If  that's  not 
compounding  a  felony,  it's  compounding  a  felon. 
But  what  the  devil  of  a  right  has  old  Germain,  alive 
or  dead,  to  whip  his  wife  in  public?"  No  clubman 
had  an  answer  to  this.  The  best  thing  of  all  was  said 
by  Lord  Kesteven  in  Paris:  "God  be  good  to  us, 
what  Turks  we  all  are!  Here's  old  Germain  taking 
the  harem-key  into  the  grave  with  him." 

That  keen-faced  old  lord  came  to  London  and 
called  on  Mary  in  Hill-street.  He  observed  her  pale 
in  her  black  weeds,  but  with  a  haunted  kind  of 
beauty  upon  her  which  she  had  never  had  before. 
Her  eyes  were  enormous,  he  said.     She  was  very 

373 


374  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

quiet  in  her  manner,  seemed  dazed,  but  not  cowed — 
apprehensive,  you  might  think.  She  looked  up  at 
him  in  a  mutely  expectant  way,  as  if  she  expected 
him  momentarily  to  hit  her,  and  was  too  tired  even 
to  flinch  at  the  impending  blow.  He  felt  deeply  for 
her — all  sorts  of  things,  and  after  his  manner,  there- 
fore, was  more  bluff  and  direct  than  usual.  *^Well, 
my  young  friend,  and  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
yourself?  I  should  advise  you  to  get  out  of  this. 
No  woman  can  be  expected  to  stand  it." 

She  flushed  at  the  bold  attack,  but  did  not  avoid 
it.  *^I  hear  nothing  of  what  is  being  said.  I  am 
sure  he  did  not  mean  to  be  unkind.  That  is  not  like 
him.    I  was  to  blame." 

^^I  won't  talk  about  it,  or  I  shall  get  angry.  Cant 
— in  a  man's  will — to  disguise  something  worse,  and 
nastier — pouf!  Look  here,  my  dear,  try  France — 
try  Paris.  My  sister  Margaret  de  Guiche  would  like 
you  to  pay  her  a  visit.  She  said  so.  She's  alone,  and 
you  need  see  nobody.  De  Guiche  is  in  Petersburg. 
You  couldn't  have  a  better  duena  than  Margaret. 
It  will  be  a  kindness  to  her — and  a  kindness  to  me. 
I  wish  you'd  think  of  it." 

She  listened  with  hanging  head,  and  veiled  eyes. 
Her  eyelids,  always  heavy,  seemed  now  as  if  they 
were  of  intolerable  weight.  She  watched  her  twist- 
ing fingers  as  she  thanked  him  for  the  proposal. 
She  would  think  of  it,  she  told  him — she  had  every- 
thing to  think  of. 

''I  know  that  very  well,"  Kesteven  said;  ''but 
there  are  some  things  which  I  hope  you  need  not 


WINGS 


375 


consider.  One  of  them  is  the  great  regard  I  have  for 
you." 

Oh,  yes,  she  was  sure  of  that.  He  had  shown  her 
so  much  kindness. 

^'I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  continued;  ''and  I'll  go 
as  far  as  this.  If  you  decide  to  renounce  your  legacy 
— on  reflection — I  should  claim  the  privilege  of  help- 
ing you  to  do  it.  I  can  hardly  go  further — but  so  far 
I  am  ready  to  go.  Remember  that.  Remember  that 
I  am  allowed  to  call  myself  your  friend.  Remember, 
if  you  choose,  that  I  am  five-and-sixty,  and  take 
heart — if  you  need  heart." 

It  was  clear  what  was  implied  in  this  speech ;  but 
she  did  not  feel  equal  to  quieting  the  anxiety  which 
underlay  it.    She  made  no  remark. 

''At  any  rate,"  said  his  lordship,  "I  tell  you  that 
you  may  command  the  Hotel  de  Guiche.  Margaret 
may  be  trusted — and  perhaps  I  need  not  add  that 
you  may  trust  me,  too."  But  he  couldn't  get  her  to 
say  more  than  she  would  think  of  it,  so  took  his 
leave.    He  kissed  her  hand. 

So  far  she  had  not  seen  Duplessis,  nor  heard  from 
him;  but  the  sense  that  an  interview  with  him  was 
impending,  was,  as  it  were,  swinging  like  a  sword 
over  her  head,  fretted  her  nerves  so  badly  that  she 
was  incapable  of  thinking  what  she  could  say  to  him 
when  he  came  to  her — as  of  course  he  would — with 
an  offer  of  instant  marriage.  That  would  be,  in  his 
view,  the  only  possible  answer  to  the  public  affront 
he  had  received.  But  as  the  days  went  on  and  he 
made  no  sign  she  began  to  wonder  dimly  whether, 


376  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

after  all,  she  might  not  escape — and  from  such  faint 
sighings  thrown  out  into  the  vague  she  came  by  de- 
grees to  hopes — and  from  hopes  to  plans  and  shifts. 

Everything  in  town  conspired  together  to  make 
her  position  impossible.  The  chill  reserve  of  Mrs. 
James — whose  frozen  civility  was  worse  than  any 
rebuke;  the  letters  of  her  parents  from  Blackheath, 
kind,  repining,  half-informed  letters  which  said  in 
effect,  We  don't  know  what  is  being  cried  against 
you,  but  be  sure  that  we  are  on  your  side;  and  the 
terrible  letters  of  Jinny  (almost  Mrs.  Podmore  by 
now,  and  vigorously  on  the  side  of  decorum) — "the 
disgrace  which  has  been  cast  upon  our  family  .  .  . 
your  unfortunate  liaison.  .  .  .  One  can  only  hope 
that  you  will  let  them  be  a  warning,  child.  .  .  .  Let 
us  be  thankful  that  things  are  no  worse  .  .  ." — all 
this  made  the  poor  girl  so  self-conscious  that  she 
could  hardly  lift  her  head.  She  thought  that  the  very 
servants  were  judging  her — as,  no  doubt,  they  were; 
she  felt  beaten  to  the  earth ;  and  the  fund  of  common- 
sense,  the  fund  of  charity,  which  she  had  at  her  call 
— through  mere  panic — suspended  payment. 

If  she  had  been  left  to  herself  she  would  have 
borne  her  husband  no  grudge  for  seeking  to  tie  her 
publicly  to  his  name.  She  would  have  pitied,  not 
blamed  him,  for  supposing  that  three  thousand  or 
thirty  thousand  a  year  could  have  held  her.  And 
certainly  that  midnight  confession  absolved  her  in 
her  own  conscience.  If  she  had  looked  back  upon 
her  dealings  with  Duplessis  it  would  have  been  to 
see  what  a  little  fool  she  had  been — to  blush  at  her 


WINGS  377 

ignorance,  not  at  her  shame.  But  now  her  world 
insisted  on  her  disgrace ;  she  was  made  to  stand  in  a 
sheet  hke  a  Jane  Shore;  the  straight,  clinging,  dis- 
graceful robe  imprisoned  her  body  and  soul.  She 
felt  that  she  must  die  if  she  stayed  where  she  was,  a 
public  mock;  but  until  Duplessis  delayed  so  obvi- 
ously his  coming  she  had  felt  bound  in  honour  to  see 
him. 

To  be  just  to  Duplessis,  he  kept  himself  away  by 
violence,  obeying  an  instinct — which  was  a  true  one. 
He  had  no  doubt  but  that  she  would  marry  him  now 
— he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  see  how  any  two 
people  could  otherwise  reply  to  posthumous  impu- 
dence of  the  sort.  Indeed,  he  felt  in  his  heart  of 
hearts  that  she  owed  him  that.  But  his  instinct  told 
him  that  that  could  not  be  put  to  her  for  the  present, 
and  that  to  be  seen  in  her  society,  to  visit  her,  even 
to  write  to  her,  would  make  her  burden  heavier  to 
bear.  He  contented  himself  by  renouncing  his  leg- 
acy in  the  most  precise  terms — in  a  letter  to  Dockwra 
the  lawyer,  and  in  another  to  James  Germain.  If 
this  act  came  to  Mary's  ears,  as  he  hoped  it  would, 
no  harm  would  be  done  to  his  affair.  Rather,  she 
would  see  in  it  a  plain  declaration  of  his  feelings. 
But,  unfortunately  for  him,  it  did  not.  James  Ger- 
main was  at  Misperton  by  this  time,  and  Dockwra 
communicated  directly  with  him,  not  through  his 
wife.  James  Germain,  true  to  his  fastidious  sense, 
thought  it  no  business  of  Mary's — and  was  thankful 
it  was  none  of  his. 

The  delay  of  a  week,  ten  days,  a  fortnight,  gave 


378  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

her  courage.  Her  feverish  dreams,  hopes  of  a  re- 
lease, left  her.  She  knew  now  that  she  was  to  be  free, 
and,  once  resolved,  schemes  began  to  gather  in  her 
brain,  to  develop;  her  mind  went  to  work,  and  she 
became  happy.  There  was  no  doubt  at  all  where  she 
would  go.  All  her  ideas  of  freedom  were  centred  in 
one  place — Land's  End.  The  sea,  the  rocks,  the 
birds — and  the  low  white  cottage  facing  them  all — 
open-doored  to  them  all.  Her  dream  of  nearly  three 
years;  now  to  come  true!  If  Senhouse  was  at  the 
back  of  her  mind,  he  was  kept  rigorously  there.  She 
felt  virginal  now  when  she  thought  of  Senhouse, 
found  herself  blushing,  and  put  the  image  away  as 
not  lawful.  Freedom  from  the  intolerable  eyes  about 
her — the  butler's — her  maid's — Mrs.  James's — this 
ghastly  mummery  of  clothes  and  ceremony — she 
agonized  to  be  quit  of  it  all ;  but  now  she  intended  to 
be,  and  could  not  afford  time  to  agonize.  She  turned 
all  her  quick  wits  to  the  work,  applied  method  and 
deliberation  to  it,  and  could  almost  fix  a  day,  so 
plain  did  everything  seem. 

Method  cautioned  her  to  go  slowly  to  work;  the 
first  thing  to  do  was  to  accustom  Mrs.  James  to  her 
walks  abroad.  She  devoted  a  week  to  this — went 
alone,  deeply  veiled,  into  the  park  every  day,  and 
spent  gradually  increasing  hours  there,  doing  noth- 
ing more. 

Then,  one  morning,  she  went  circuitously  to  the 
Bank  in  Burlington-gardens,  and  asked  for  her  pass- 
book. There  was  some  £300  to  her  credit — the  re- 
mains of  her  pin-money  allowance.    Two  days  later 


WINGS  379 

she  presented  a  cheque  for  £300 — which  left  her  a 
balance  of  £27  los. — and  asked  for  the  money  in 
gold.  The  porter  took  the  sack  to  her  cabj  and  she 
gave  the  direction  ^'Hill-street" — but  once  out  of 
hearing  she  put  her  hand  through  the  window  at  the 
top  and  gave  another  order — the  Army  and  Navy 
Stores. 

Leaving  her  sack  of  money  in  the  cab,  she  bought 
herself  a  Gladstone  bag.  Perhaps  it  is  evidence  at 
once  of  the  folly  and  fortune  of  women  that  she  was 
not  robbed;  she  may  well  have  deserved  to  be,  for, 
being  full  of  her  ingenious  schemes,  she  had  given 
no  thought  to  the  matter — had  neither  taken  the 
man's  number,  nor  told  him  what  she  was  entrusting 
to  him.  She  had  not  so  much  as  troubled  to  shut  the 
cab  door  after  her.  The  man  himself,  with  a  ''Well, 
I'm  damned!"  had  done  that,  and  it  may  be  that  the 
very  magnitude  of  his  opportunities  had  bereft  him 
of  the  means  of  using  them;  for  she  found  him  smil- 
ing on  the  rank  when  she  came  out.  The  bag  was 
handed  in  to  her — uncovered — she  gave  the  new 
direction  "Paddington,"  and  en  route  deposited  her 
sack  of  sovereigns  and  locked  it  in  the  bag. 

At  Paddington  she  dismissed  the  cab,  not  extrava- 
gantly, and  disappeared  with  a  porter  and  the  bag. 
She  put  it  in  the  cloak-room,  took  a  ticket  for  it,  then 
went  back  to  Hill-street. 

Two  things  must  be  done,  two  letters  be  written — 
one  to  her  mother,  one  to  Jam^es  Germain.  He  had 
always  been  her  friend ;  she  was  really  fond  of  him,- 
and  liked  to  think  that  he  would  regret  her  loss,  while 


380  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

she  was  bound  to  guard  against  his  trying  to  recover 
her.    To  her  mother  she  wrote  very  simply  that  she 
was  suddenly  called  away  on  affairs  connected  with 
her  husband's  death,  and  might  have  to  go  abroad. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  write — but  she  would  send 
an  address  as  soon  as  she  had  one  of  any  perma- 
nence.   She  added,  "Darling  Mother,  be  as  sure  of 
my  love  for  you  and  father  and  all  of  you,  as  I  am  of 
yours.    I  promise  to  tell  you  how  I  succeed  in  my 
business,  or  if  I  fail  in  it.    You  will  never  be  out  of 
my  thoughts,  as  you  are  never  out  of  my  prayers. 
Love  me  always,  in  spite  of  anything  that  you  may 
hear  against  me.    I  have  been  foolish,  very  ignorant, 
and  very  blind — but  no  worse,  Mother,  upon  my 
honour.    I  am  wiser  now,  and  intend  to  be  a  good 
woman.     Trust  your  Mary;    who  loves  you  and 
kisses  this  paper." 

She  wrote  in  the  same  strain  to  the  Rector  of  Mis- 
perton.  "I  am  not  able  to  bear  the  strain  of  London 
for  the  present,  and  intend  to  travel  for  some  time 
before  making  my  plans.  I  feel  the  need  of  quiet, 
and  shall  trust  in  you  to  do  all  you  can  to  ensure  it  to 
me.  After  the  comforting  words  you  gave  me  I  am 
sure  that  you  may  rely  upon  my  doing  nothing  which 
should  make  me  unworthy  of  them.  I  am  resolved 
not  to  see  Mr.  Duplessis  again.  I  could  never  be 
happy  with  him,  nor  make  him  happy  after  what 
has  passed.  If  he  should  inquire  for  me,  pray  tell 
him  that  this  is  my  sincere  conviction,  and  ask  him 
not  to  attempt  to  dissuade  me  from  it.  I  can  never 
thank  you  enough  for  your  invariable  kindness  to 


WINGS  381 

me;  that  must  always  be  one  of  my  happy  recollec- 
tions of  the  life  that  I  have  ended.  If  I  have  to  begin 
again  without  it,  it  is  because  I  cannot  ask  you  to 
continue  it  until  I  have  proved  myself  more  worthy 
to  have  it.  I  am  going  away  now  by  myself,  to  work 
and  to  learn,  and  to  forget  much,  but  never  to  forget 
your  kindness.  I  beg  you  to  remember  sometimes 
with  charity  your  affectionate  friend,  Mary  S. 
Germain." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  her  pen  to  write  to  Tristram; 
as  she  sat  hesitating  the  phrases  printed  themselves 
one  after  another  in  her  head,  and  she  wrote  them 
down.  *^You  never  loved  me — but  I  was  proud  to 
be  even  in  your  notice.  I  am  greatly  to  blame  for  the 
renewal  of  what  was  idle  on  your  part  and  foolish 
vanity  on  mine  in  the  beginning.  I  can  only  be  glad 
that  my  husband,  though  he  knew  everything,  heard 
it  all  again  from  my  own  lips — I  told  him  the  night  he 
died.  I  hope  that  you  will  be  happy  and  famous. 
I  know  that  both  are  in  your  power.  Do  not  try  to 
find  me,  I  beg  of  you.  Forget  me,  and  love  a  woman 
who  is  more  suited  to  you  by  birth  and  education. 
I  know  that  if  you  try  you  can  succeed  in  this.  If 
you  have  any  feeling  of  regard  for  me  you  will  do  as 
I  ask  you  now. — Mary  S.  Germain." 

Two  of  these  letters  she  posted  with  her  own  hand 
that  night.    Tristram's  she  reserved. 

Then  she  made  her  last  preparations.  She  packed 
her  jewel-case  carefully,  tied  and  sealed  it,  and  ad- 
dressed it  to  the  bank.  She  dined  in  her  boudoir 
and  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  with  Bradshaw, 


382  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

planning  out  her  route.  Love  of  secrecy,  love  of  in- 
tricacy, which  were  both  characteristic  of  her,  de- 
cided her  against  so  simple  a  course  as  a  journey 
from  Paddington  to  Penzance.  She  worked  out  a 
way  more  to  her  taste:  Waterloo  to  Basingstoke, 
thence  to  Swindon,  and  thence  by  the  Great  Western 
to  Exeter,  where  she  would  stay  for  a  while.  This 
necessitated  an  early  start  in  the  morning,  for  she 
must  go  to  Paddington  and  recover  her  three  hundred 
pounds.  She  would  take  no  luggage  whatever, 
would  buy  what  she  wanted  in  Exeter.  Loyalty  to 
Senhusian  ethics  decided  her  to  this. 

Meantime,  it  was  necessary  to  be  rid  of  her  maid 
for  an  hour.  That  she  effected  by  the  simple  means 
of  sending  her  with  the  note  to  Duplessis,  and  with 
her  jewel-box,  to  be  taken  to  the  bank,  and  a  receipt 
obtained.  The  moment  she  was  alone  she  dressed 
herself  as  she  intended  to  appear — in  black  jacket 
and  skirt  and  a  grey  silk  blouse — in  hat  and  veil 
studiously  plain.  Then  she  left  the  house  in  Hill- 
street  on  foot,  got  a  cab  in  Davies-street,  and  was 
free. 

All  went  well  with  her  as  far  as  Basingstoke;  but 
there  she  was  imprudent.  She  asked  at  the  office 
whether  she  could  book  through  to  Penzance,  and 
break  her  journey  for  a  week,  and  being  told,  after 
some  delay,  that  she  could  not — "Then  Exeter, 
please,''  she  said.  "Second  single  to  Exeter,"  and 
receiving  it,  holding  it  in  her  mouth,  she  half  turned 
to  get  a  better  light  into  her  purse,  and  caught  sight 
of  Horace  Wing — the  courtly  Horace — who  must 


WINGS  383 

have  heard  her.  In  the  shock,  as  he  hastened  for- 
ward, cap  in  one  hand,  golf-clubs  dragging  by  the 
other,  she  left  her  change  on  the  counter,  bowed  arid 
fairly  ran.  This  was  very  indiscreet;  but  she  es- 
caped, and  the  porter  came  after  her  with  her  bag. 
Horace  Wing,  after  gaping,  had  a  shuddering  fit. 
He  did  not  follow  her,  and  was  not  able  to  smile  at 
the  encounter  for  some  weeks. 

Her  carriage  was  empty :  she  was  alone  now,  with 
all  her  life,  like  an  open  sea,  in  front  of  her.  She  sat, 
looking  out  towards  the  West,  her  hands  quiet  in  her 
lap;  she  had  no  sense  of  high  adventure,  no  bosom 
full  of  hope — peace  possessed  her  altogether.  She 
felt  that  she  could  lie  her  length  upon  some  green 
bank,  sheltered  from  the  wind,  and  sleep  herself  to 
death.  Such  a  feeling  as  this  was  so  foreign  to  her 
nature  that  she  was  surprised  at  herself,  asked  her- 
self whether  some  chord  in  her  had  not  been  broken. 
She  was  sanguine  by  temperament  and  always  lived 
in  the  future;  if  on  any  morning  of  any  week  she 
could  not  wake  up  with  the  sense  of  an  excitement  to 
come,  to  be  waited  for,  to  be  felt  nearer — that  day  was 
so  much  dead  weight,  so  much  space  of  drab,  to  be 
got  through,  in  order  that  she  might  live  to-morrow\ 
She  told  herself  that  she  was  mortally  tired — that  her 
present  reward  was  to  be  able  to  live  unwatched  and 
un judged.  That  was  enough  for  any  girl  surely — 
let  the  morrow's  outlook  provide  for  the  morrow. 

Even  while  she  was  thinking  these  thoughts  she 
caught  herself  unawares.  She  found  herself  watch- 
ing the  flying  landscape  anxiously,  and  smiling  as 


384  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

she  watched.  The  open  common,  the  duck-pond, 
and  the  white  road — yes,  and  the  tilt-cart  drawn  by 
a  white  horse — plodding  to  the  West!  Three  years 
ago,  almost  to  a  day — she  and  the  tilt-cart  had  taken 
that  road.  And  then  she  had  been  a  bride  of  an  hour 
— and  now  she  was  a  widow  of  an  hour.  She  caught 
herself  blushing,  was  confused,  felt  eyes  upon  her: 
the  carriage  seemed  full  of  eyes.  For  a  while  she 
continued  to  watch,  to  watch  through  the  mist  in  her 
own  eyes — and  then  she  turned  suddenly  in  her 
place,  opened  her  novel  and  read  diligently  in  it  until 
the  train,  stopping  at  Taunton,  showed  her  that  the 
place  of  dangerous  memories  was  past. 

She  would  not  allow  her  thoughts  to  recur  to  that 
curious  little  drama  of  the  mind :  in  fact,  she  worked 
hard  to  avoid  the  temptation.  She  abandoned  her 
novel,  opened  her  purse,  and  did  her  accounts.  She 
made  lists  of  necessary  purchases,  and  began  to  post 
up  the  diary  with  which  she  had  provided  herself. 

When  she  reached  Exeter  she  stepped  out — Miss 
Mary  Middleham.  Her  bag  bore  a  label  to  that 
effect. 


XVII 

FIRST  FLIGHT 

Mrs.  Merritt  who  had  been  housekeeper  to  the 
late  Canon  Blackrod  and  now  let  lodgings  in  a  house 
of  her  own,  was  amiable,  and  by  the  possession  of 
that  quality  was  able  to  keep  her  curiosity  within 
bounds:  but  it  was  her  daughter  Polly,  a  Devon 
maid  of  apple  cheeks  and  sloe-black  eyes,  who 
taught  her  enthusiasm  for  her  lodger.  Polly  Merritt 
adored  the  quiet  and  pretty  young  lady  who,  though 
she  wore  such  beautiful  clothes,  gave  herself  none  of 
the  airs  which  were  clearly  within  her  rights;  who 
would  wash  her  own  blouses,  trim  her  own  hats,  or  sit 
below-stairs  chatting  affably,  while  she  trimmed  one 
for  Polly  herself.  In  such  familiar  intercourse  ail  the 
necessary  safeguards  of  landladies  were  proved  to  be 
secure.  Miss  Middleham,  it  seemed,  was  an  orphan, 
by  profession  a  teacher  of  languages,  who  had  found 
it  necessary  to  leave  her  London  employment  to 
escape  a  gentleman's  attentions.  Most  reasonable, 
most  proper.  The  gentleman  was  one  indeed,  highly 
connected,  in  fact,  cousin  of  an  Honourable;  but 
impecunious  and  not  very  steady.     Girls  who  are 

orphans  must  look  after  themselves:  there  had  been 

385 


386  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

nothing  for  it  but  flight.  Admirable  forethought! 
Nothing,  certainly,  but  praise  could  be  given  to  Miss 
Middleham  for  conduct  so  discreet. 

^' It'll  bring  him  round,  Miss,  depend  upon  it," 
Mrs.  Merritt  had  considered.  ^' It'll  make  him  look 
nine  ways.    As  good  as  a  slap  in  the  face,  any  day." 

^'Better,  I  hope,"  Mary  said. 

'^Some  of  'em  wants  one  thing,  some  another, 
Miss.  Let  him  know  that  you're  in  earnest,  what- 
ever you  do." 

"I  am  quite  in  earnest,  Mrs.  Merritt,"  Mary  told 
her;  "and  I  think  I  have  made  that  plain." 

"Did  you  tell  him  so,  or  write  it.  Miss?"  Polly 
must  ask.    "Writing's  better — but  it's  dull  work." 

"I  have  done  both,  Polly.  He  doesn't  know  where 
I  am.  I  made  it  quite  clear  to  him  that  he  could 
not." 

Mrs.  Merritt,  having  observed  her  guest,  passed 
the  back  of  her  hand  rapidly  across  her  nose.  "To 
be  sure  you  could.  Miss.  It's  easy  to  be  seen  that 
God  Almighty  never  gave  you  that  pair  of  eyes  for 
nothing.  To  call  a  man,  or  send  him  about  his 
business — ah,  I'll  warrant  you." 

"Poor  fellow,"  mused  the  tender  Polly.  "I  pity 
him." 

In  private  conversation  afterwards  Mrs.  Merritt 
assured  her  daughter  that  she  need  not.  We  should 
have  the  young  gentleman  here  before  the  swallows 
were  away:  let  Polly  mark  her  words.  Our  young 
lady  was  a  snug  young  lady — that  was  a  certainty. 
She  was  not  a  girl  who  would  go  without  letters  of 


FIRST   FLIGHT  387 

a  morning  for  long  together.  Letters!  That  sort 
live  on  'em,  as  a  man  on  his  eleven  o'clock  beer. 
No,  no.  She  was  used  to  company,  any  one  could 
see.  She  was  meant  to  be  somebody's  darling.  How 
else  did  she  get  her  pretty  ways — and  why  to  good- 
ness wear  her  pretty  frocks,  but  for  that?  Mean- 
time, she  had  been  used  to  the  best,  you  could  see; 
and  she  should  have  it  here. 

What  Mrs.  Merritt,  however,  did  not  know,  and 
Polly  did  know,  was  that  another  gentleman  stood 
in  the  background.  Here  lay  the  root  of  Polly's  pas- 
sionate interest  in  her  friend:  a  constant  appeal  to 
her  imagination  and  judgment  and  wonder.  A  gen- 
tleman was  to  be  expected ;  there  was  always  a  gen- 
tleman. But  two  gentlemen !  One  more  gentleman, 
and  Polly  might  have  felt  the  responsibilities  of  Paris. 
In  fact,  she  did  feel  them  as  things  were. 

Mary  had  come  to  Exeter,  meaning  no  more  than 
a  passage-bird's  rest  there — a  night  or  two,  and 
away.  Her  cottage  at  the  Land's  End,  solitary  vigil 
face  to  face  with  the  sea  and  the  rocks,  tending  of 
the  hidden  garden  there,  a  waiting  and  watching — 
and  a  great  reward:  that  had  been  her  fixed  intent. 
Nothing  seemed  to  be  in  the  way.  She  was  free  as 
air:  why  should  she  wait? 

It  is  very  odd,  though,  how  you  cannot  carry 
through  these  hot-blood  thoughts  in  the  cold  blood. 
That  momentary  shyness  v/hich  had  come  upon  her 
in  the  train,  when  she  had  caught  herself  looking 
out  for  a  remembered  village-green  and  had  been 
abashed,  came  upon  her  the  moment  she  began  to 


388  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

think  of  Cornwall  with  a  view  to  going  there.  She 
found  herself  trembling,  found  herself  delaying, 
drawing  back.  Had  she  been  her  old  self,  never 
sought  and  never  mated,  in  this  tremulous  plight  she 
had  remained;  but  she  had  learned  to  face  such 
difficulties,  and  did  not  shirk  it.  The  more  she 
thought  of  it  the  plainer  it  became  that  she  could  not 
have  the  cottage,  could  not  sit  down  there  and  wait 
for  Senhouse.  Virgin  as  she  was,  and  virginal  as  she 
was  now  become  again,  the  picture  of  herself  in  such 
an  attitude,  and  in  such  an  act,  filled  her  with  shame. 
And  if  to  picture  it  was  dreadful,  what  would  the 
day-long  reality  be  but  unendurable?  But  where, 
then,  was  her  sense  of  comradeship,  of  perfect  amity 
between  him  and  her?  She  did  not  know.  It  was 
gone.  And  what  would  he — wondrous,  clear-seeing 
friend — say  to  her  for  this  prudery?  That  she  did 
know:  she  could  see  him  appeal  for  laughter  to  the 
skies.  Alas,  it  could  not  be  helped.  She  was  a 
maiden,  therefore  might  be  wooed.  She  was  a 
maiden,  therefore  could  not  go  a-wooing.  So  he  and 
she  might  never  meet  again!  Better  so — oh,  infi- 
nitely better — than  that  they  should  meet  by  her  act. 
Thus  it  was  that  Polly  Merritt  came  to  learn  about 
the  other  gentleman.  Mary's  perplexities  had  been 
stated,  and  Polly  was  thrilled. 

'^Oh,  Miss!    And  he's  never  spoken?" 
''No,"  said  Mary.    ''At  least— not  about  that." 
"What  was  the  nearest  he  ever  got  to?" 
Mary  looked  wise.     "He  told  me  to  go  away, 
once." 


FIRST  FLIGHT  369 

*'Hedid!    Why  were  you  to  go  then  ? " 

^'Because — oh,  because  he  could  see,  I  suppose, 
that  I  didn't  want  to;  and '' 

^'Well?" 

^'Because — I  sometimes  fancy — he  didn't  want 
me  to.  At  least,  I  think  he  didn't.  He  said,  ^You 
had  better  go  home.    I'm  a  man,  you  know.'" 

Polly  opened  her  eyes  wide.  *' That's  as  plain  as 
my  nose.    I  should  think  so!    So,  of  course " 

"Yes,  of  course  I  had  to  go."  She  looked  down 
at  her  toes,  just  as  if  Senhouse  had  been  standing 
above  her,  bidding  her  go. 

"I  dream  sometimes,"  she  said,  "that  he  comes  to 
me  in  the  night,  and  looks  at  me — never  speaks,  but 
just  looks.  Not  at  me,  you  know,  but  through  me — 
right  through  to  the  pillow.  That's  enough.  Then 
he  turns  and  goes  away,  and  I  follow  him  out  of 
door,  into  the  warm  dark — and  he  turns  sharply 
upon  me  and  is  dreadfully  angry.  I've  never  known 
him  angry;  but  dreams  are  like  that.  I  see  his  face 
quite  changed — wild  and  cold  at  once,  and  terribly 
stern.  And  I  run  away  into  the  empty  house,  and 
wish  that  I  were  dead.  No,  no.  I  could  never  bear 
that — to  seek  him  and  be  spurned.  I  would  sooner 
never  see  him  again." 

Polly  was  deeply  moved,  but  practical.  A  girl 
must  look  ahead — far  beyond  dreams.  "You  had 
best  not.  Miss,"  she  said,  "if  that's  likely  to  be  the 
way  of  it.    Is  he  that  sort — your  hot-and-cold  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — how  can  I  tell?  That  has 
never  been  between  us,  save  that  once,  when  he  told 


390  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

me  to  go  away.  He's  a  wonderful  talker  about  all 
sorts  of  things ;  he  can  make  them  all  extraordinary. 
I  feel,  after  listening  to  him,  that  I  understand  all 
life,  all  experience.  Everything  seems  reasonable. 
But  when  it  comes  to — us — he  won't  speak.  I  be- 
lieve he  can't.  And  I  understand  him  better  when 
he  doesn't." 

''So  would  any  one,  I  should  think,"  said  Polly 
Merritt.  ''But  how's  he  going  to  look  at  you  if  he 
never  sees  you,  and  don't  know  where  you  are?" 

"Ah,"  said  Mary  with  far-sighted  eyes,  "I  don't 
know." 

"You  might  write  to  him,  I  suppose — and  slip  in 
your  address,  by  accident  like." 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "I  couldn't.  Besides,  he 
has  no  address.  He  just  comes  and  goes — like  the 
wind." 

"Has  he  no  house  of  his  own?" 

"No.    He  hves  in  a  tent — in  a  cart." 

"What!  Like  a  gipsy?  Oh,  Miss!"  This 
would  never,  never  do. 

But  Mary  admitted  it,  thoughtfully.  "Yes.  I 
think  he  might  be  a  sort  of  gipsy." 

This,  to  Polly,  was  final.  '^  I  do  think  you're  better 
here,  Miss  Middleham,  if  you'll  excuse  me." 

"Perhaps  I  am,"  said  Mary. 

Polly  had  veered.  "I'll  warrant  the  other  gentle- 
man would  have  a  house  to  offer  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  so.    But " 

"Ah,  that's  just  it— that's  just  it." 

Mary  admitted  it.    "I  suppose  it  is.    But  he  says 


FIRST  FLIGHT  391 

that  he  will  never  marry.  He  doesn't  believe  in 
marriage." 

''Ho,  indeed!"  cried  Polly.  ''Then  pray  what 
does  he  beheve  in?" 

"I  don't  know.    I'm  not  sure." 

Polly  tossed  her  young  head.  "It  wouldn't  take 
long  for  me  to  be  sure." 

Then  Mary  showed  her  face,  and  her  eyes  shone 
clear.  "I  am  sure  of  this,  that  if  he  called  me  I 
should  follow  him  over  the  w^orld,  however  he  chose 
me  to  be.  But  I  know  he  never  will.  He  is  unlike 
anybody  else — he  comes  and  goes  like  the  wind." 

"Let  him,  for  me,"  said  Polly,  "'specially  when 
he's  going." 

The  summer  waned  and  fainted;  autumn  mists 
crept  about,  and  found  her  still  in  Exeter.  Pupils 
came  slowly,  but  she  got  one  or  two,  and  there  was 
promise  of  more.  The  Vicar  of  the  parish  helped 
her.  She  taught  in  his  Sunday  school,  did  him  some 
visiting,  danced  with  his  boys  and  sang  with  his  girls. 
Through  him  she  got  an  engagement  in  September, 
in  a  young  ladies'  academy — to  teach  Italian  two 
days  a  week.  She  got  to  know  a  few  people.  There 
was  a  gentlemanly  young  man  called  Bloxam,  who 
escorted  her  home  from  choral  evenings;  then  there 
was  a  curate — quod  semper,  quod  uhique — who  lent 
her  books  and  professed  himself  ready  to  discuss 
them  afterwards,  by  correspondence  or  otherwise. 

These  things  faintly  amused  her;  the  simplicity 
of  such  devices,  for  instance,  the  little  buildings-up 
of  the  little  architects!     She  felt  herself,  ruefully. 


392  •    HALFWAY  HOUSE 

slipping  back  into  the  parochial,  losing  touch  with 
her  wide  horizons.  The  tonic  properties  of  freedom, 
which  at  first  had  been  as  delightful  as  the  mere  ease 
of  it,  were  now  staling  by  use.  She  began  to  find 
herself  grow  dull.  The  one  fact  upon  which  she 
could  build  was  that  she  was  again  earning  her  living. 


XVIII 

ENTER   A  BIRD-CATCHER 

October  was  in,  mild  and  languorous;  the  trees 
dripped  all  day,  the  mist  seemed  unable  to  lift  itself 
from  the  low-lying  city.  Mary  grew  restless  and  dis- 
contented. The  usual  things  happened,  but  had 
ceased  to  entertain.  Mr.  Bloxam,  after  taking  her 
for  excursions  by  water,  had  one  day  proposed  that 
she  should  take  tea  with  his  people,  prosperous 
hucksters  in  the  town.  She  agreed — to  find  out  very 
soon  that  she  was  on  exhibition,  on  approval,  you 
might  say.  Mrs.  Bloxam,  the  mother,  addressed  her 
particular  inquiries,  Mr.  Bloxam,  the  father,  gave 
her  a  carnation  out  of  the  conservatory.  Shortly 
afterwards  Mr.  Bloxam,  the  son,  made  her  another 
proposition,  and  was  exceedingly  surprised  that  she 
did  not  jump  at  it.  Can  such  things  be  ?  he  inquired, 
looking  about.  She  had  shaken  her  head  at  him 
very  gently  when  she  told  him  that  really  she  couldn't. 
It  was  charmingly  done,  with  kindness,  but  com- 
plete finality.    That  he  saw. 

He  told  her  that  his  heart  was  broken,  that  she 
saw  before  her  a  man  beaten  down.  ^*It  is  dread- 
ful," he  said.    ''My  mother  liked  you  so  much.    She 

393 


394 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


is  hard  to  please.  I  supopse  you  wouldn't  care  to 
think  it  over?'* 

Again  she  shook  her  head.  A  Mr.  Bloxam  of 
Exeter!  If  he  only  knew,  or  could  be  made  to  know! 
*^No,  no,"  she  said.  "I  sha'n't  alter.  But  I  hope 
we  are  not  to  be  bad  friends." 

Mr.  Bloxam  had  bowed,  and  said,  "I  should  be 
most  happy" — and  one  sees  what  he  meant.  "My 
mother,  you  know,  won't  like  it.  Naturally  she  is 
partial.    She  will  say  that  you  led  me  on." 

"Then  she  will  say  what  is  very  untrue,"  cried 
Mary,  with  flashing  eyes,  "and  I  hope  you  will  tell 
her  so.  It  is  very  hard  if  I  may  not  have  friends 
without  being  accused  of  ridiculous  things." 

"Girls  do  them,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Bloxam 
dubiously.    "I've  met  with  several  cases." 

"If  you  are  likely  to  include  this  among  them,  I 
must  ask  you  to  let  me  go,"  she  said  with  spirit; 
"but  perhaps  you  would  like  to  give  me  some  tea 
first." 

Mr.  Bloxam,  murmuring  about  the  sacred  rites  of 
hospitality,  assured  her  that  he  would;  and  they 
parted  on  good  terms.  He  told  her  that  he  intended 
to  travel ;  and  indeed  he  did  afterwards  go  to  Weston- 
super-Mare  for  a  month. 

The  unfortunate  but  absurd  episode  taught  her  to 
be  circumspect  with  the  literary  curate.  He,  how- 
ever, was  of  a  more  cautious  temperament,  and  went 
away  for  his  holiday  with  no  more  pronounced  symp- 
tom than  a  promise  to  send  her  picture  postcards 
from  the  Cathedral  cities  which  he  purposed  visiting. 


ENTER  A  BIRD-CATCHER  395 

"You  may  like  to  have  these  afterwards,"  he  darkly 
said,  and  then  took  himself  away  on  a  bicycle. 

The  year  was  come  to  a  critical  point  for  her. 
About  this  time  Halfway  House  would  be  plodding 
its  way  to  the  West,  its  owner,  loose-limbed  and 
leisurely,  smoking  on  the  tilt.  Almost  any  day 
now  it  might  pass  by  Exeter,  or  through  it;  almost 
any  day  she  might  come  plump  upon  it — and  what 
was  to  happen  to  her  then?  Could  she  endure  the 
year's  round,  or  know  him  by  her  Cornish  sea,  in  her 
white  cottage  on  the  cliff,  and  stay  here  nursing  her 
wound,  feeling  the  throb  and  the  ache?  It  seemed 
impossible — and  yet  women  do  such  things.  It  was 
almost  the  worst  of  her  plight  that  she  knew  she  could 
do  it.  It  was  in  her  blood  to  do  it.  The  poor  were 
like  that:  dumb  beasts. 

And  now  the  delicacy  which  she  had  felt  at  first, 
and  which  had  kept  her  away  from  Land's  End, 
became  a  tyrant,  as  the  temptations  grew  upon  her. 
It  prevented  her  riding  afield  by  any  road  leading 
into  Exeter  from  the  East.  She  had  a  bicycle ;  more, 
she  had  a  certain  way  of  bringing  him  directly  to  her 
side.  He  had  taught  her.  The  patter  an.  But  no! 
She  couldn't.  So  she  worked  on  doggedly,  with  the 
fret  and  fever  in  her  bones ;  and  day  by  day  October 
slipped  into  November;  the  days  slipped  off  as  the 
wet  leaves  fell. 

Early  in  November,  on  a  day  of  sunny  weather, 
Polly  Merritt  announced  a  visitor,  who  followed  her 
immediately  into  the  room,  his  straw  hat  under  his 
left  arm,  his  right  hand  held  out. 


396  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

*^A  gentleman  to  see  Miss  Middleham,  if  you 
please/'  says  Polly  Merritt,  and  Mary  had  sprung 
up,  with  her  hand  to  her  side. 

^^It's  the  tall  one,  mother,  not  the  windy  one,'' 
was  explained  in  the  kitchen,  but  Mrs.  Merritt, 
sniffing,  had  declared  they  were  all  the  same. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that,"  said  Polly. 
^^But  this  gentleman  talks  like  asking  and  having,  if 
you  want  my  opinion." 

The  riot  in  her  breast  was  betrayed  by  her  shining 
eyes  and  the  quick  flood  of  colour  from  neck  to 
brows;  but  he  played  the  man  of  the  world  so  well 
that  she  was  able  to  recover  herself. 

He  made  his  excuses  for  breaking  in  upon  her. 
He  had  been  going  through  Exeter  in  any  case.  It 
was  hardly  to  be  resisted,  she  would  allow.  He 
owned  that  Horace  Wing  had  given  him  the  clue. 
'^Poor  Horace,  you  hurt  him.  It  took  two  months' 
hard  talking  in  town  and  at  least  a  month  of  surmise 
in  Scotland  before  Horace  could  find  strength  enough 
to  own  up  to  the  fact  that  he  had  met  you,  that  you 
had  bowed — and  bolted.  He  mentioned  it  with  tears 
in  his  eyes,  as  an  extreme  case.  He  had  heard  you 
book  to  Exeter — second  single."  Then  he  looked  at 
her  and  smiled.    ''But  why  Miss  Middleham?" 

''Why  not?"  she  echoed  him  bravely.  "I  had  to 
be  somebody." 

"Weren't  you  person  enough?" 

"Ah,  yes,  I  was  too  much  of  a  person,  I  was 
almost  a  personage.  I  was  never  happy  in  that  dis- 
guise.   My  clothes  never  fitted  me." 


^ 


ENTER  A  BIRD-CATCHER  397 

"You  should  let  other  people  judge  of  that.  If 
you  would  like  my  opinion  of  your  clothes,  for  in- 
stance  " 

She  shook  her  head,  without  speaking.  He  tried 
a  more  direct  attack. 

"You  forgive  me  for  coming?" 

She  suspected  a  tenderness.  "Oh,  it  is  very  kind 
of  you.  I  don't  have  many  visitors.  I  am  glad  to 
see  you." 

"That's  good.  May  I  see  you  again,  then,  while 
lean?" 

She  inquired:    "Are  you  likely  to  be  here  long?" 

A  light  hand  was  necessary  now.  "Oh,  dear  no — 
unfortunately.  A  day  or  two  at  the  outside;  time 
to  buy  cartridges.  You  remember  the  Ogmores? 
I  am  due  at  Wraybrook  on  the  seventh.  Pheasants. 
But  until  then " 

This  was  the  fourth,  you  see.  He  would  be  hor- 
ribly in  the  way.  "I  am  occupied  a  good  part  of  the 
day,"  she  told  him.    "I  have  pupils." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Really!  Have  you — " 
he  flushed,  and  leaned  forward.  "Have  you  re- 
nounced your ?" 

"Not  in  so  many  words,"  she  said.  "I  have  sim- 
ply dropped  it.    Nobody  knows  where  I  am." 

"You  knew  that  I  had  formally  renounced  mine?" 

She  had  not  known  that.  There  was  an  implica- 
tion in  it — which  she  had  run  here  to  avoid;  and 
here  it  was.  "Did  you?"  she  said  shortly.  "I'm 
not  surprised." 

"Of  course  not,"  he  agreed.     "You  could  not 


398  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

expect  me  to  do  anything  else.  And  you  have  done 
precisely  the  same.  That,  also,  I  took  leave  to  ex- 
pect." He  saw  concern  gather  in  her  eyes,  broke  off 
abruptly,  and  plunged  into  gossip.  ^'Does  your  late 
v^orld  interest  you  still?  Do  you  v^ant  to  hear  the 
nevv^s?  Palmer  Lovell's  engagement,  for  instance? 
A  princess  of  Italy,  I  give  you  my  word — a  Donna 
Teresa  Scalchi,  rather  a  beauty,  and  a  great  shrew. 
Palmer  can  bite  a  bit,  too.  That  will  end  in  tears. 
And  Hertha  de  Speyne  marries  abroad.  Morosov, 
an  anarchist  of  sort.  They  can  collect  plants  in  Si- 
beria—  "  he  broke  off  again,  remembering  that  others 
had  collected  plants  in  Siberia.  Watching  her,  he  saw 
that  she  remembered  it,  too.  ^'Oh,  and  old  Constan- 
tine  and  I  have  kissed;  we  are  fast  friends.  Once 
more  I  write  speeches,  which  he  mangles.  He's  to 
be  at  Wraybrook,  waiting  for  me.  He  can't  bear  me 
out  of  his  sight — he's  like  an  elderly  wife.  Frightful 
nuisance,  of  course — but  I  hope  you  are  pleased." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  "Of  course  I 
am  pleased.    I  always  wanted  you  to  succeed." 

He  rattled  on.  She  had  never  seen  him  in  such 
good  spirits  or  manners.  When  he  left  her  after  an 
hour  she  was  quite  at  her  ease.  He  said  that,  if  he 
might,  he  would  come  in  the  evening,  and  take  her 
for  a  walk.  It  would  do  her  good;  and  as  for  him 
she  might  have  pity  upon  a  fellow  at  a  loose  end, 
with  nothing  on  earth  to  do  but  buy  cartridges. 

When  he  had  gone  she  sat  still,  looking  at  her 
hands  in  her  lap.  Could  she  maintain  herself  for 
three  days?    Already  she  felt  the  fences  closing  in — 


ENTER  A  BIRD-CATCHER  399 

she  had  felt  them,  as  they  moved,  though  never  once 
had  she  been  able  to  hold  up  her  hand  or  say,  Stop: 
that  you  may  not  assume.  Tristram  was  master  of 
implication,  and  her  master  there.  Throughout  his 
airy  monologue  he  had  taken  her  for  granted — her 
and  her  origin,  her  humility,  her  subservience  to  his 
nod,  her  false  position  with  Germain,  her  false  posi- 
tion now.  Why,  his  very  amiability,  his  deference 
to  her  opinion,  his  tentative  approach — what  were 
these  but  implications  of  his  passion  for  her,  a  pas- 
sion so  strong  that  it  could  bend  his  arrogant  back, 
and  show  a  Tristram  Duplessis  at  the  feet  of  a  Mary 
Middleham?  She  writhed,  she  burned  to  feel  these 
things,  and  to  be  powerless  against  such  attack.  And 
he  was  to  come  again  this  evening,  and  every  day 
for  three  days  he  was  to  come — and  no  help  for  her, 
she  must  fall  without  a  cry.  Yes,  without  a  cry;  for 
she  was  cut  off  from  her  friend,  by  the  very  need  she 
had  of  him.  What  was  she  to  do  ?  What  could  she 
do— but  fall  ? 

She  struggled.  At  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
she  told  Polly  Merritt  that  if  the  gentleman  called 
again  he  was  to  be  told  that  Miss  Middleham  was 
not  well  and  had  gone  to  bed.  Polly  wondered,  but 
obeyed.  "Lovers'  tricks!"  quoth  Mrs.  Merritt. 
"That'll  bring  him  to  the  scratch."  It  did.  He 
received  the  news  at  the  door,  with  an  impassive  face 
— all  but  for  his  eyes,  which,  keen  and  coldly  blue, 
pierced  Polly's  sloe-blacks  to  the  brain,  and  extracted 
what  might  be  useful  to  him.  "Many  thanks.  Miss 
Polly,"  he  had  said  presently.    "You're  a  good  friend, 


400 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


I  see.  Look  here,  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do.  I'll  bring 
some  flowers  round  presently,  and  you  shall  put  'em 
in  her  room,  and  say  nothing  about  it.  Do  you  see  ?" 
Polly  saw. 

The  next  day  was  a  busy  one  for  her,  and  she  saw 
nothing  of  Tristram  until  the  evening.  Then,  to  her 
dismay,  she  found  him  waiting  for  her  outside  the 
gates  of  Rosemount  Academy,  where  her  Italian 
lesson  had  been  given.  If  she  bit  her  lip,  she  blushed 
also;  and  if  he  remarked  but  one  of  these  signals  it 
was  not  her  fault.  Cavaliers  had  attended  at  those 
gates  before — not  for  her  only,  but  for  her  among 
others.  Such  a  cavalier,  however,  so  evidently  of  the 
great  world,  had  never  yet  been  looked  upon  by  the 
young  ladies  of  Rosemount. 

''Oh,"  cried  Mary,  startled,  "who  told  you- ?" 

''Your  amiable  friend,  Miss  Polly,  betrayed  you. 
I  hope  you'll  forgive  her." 

"I  suppose  I  must.  Probably  you  frightened  her 
out  of  her  wits."  But  he  swore  that  they  v/ere  very 
good  friends  indeed.  He  thought  that  Miss  Polly 
liked  him,  upon  his  word ;  and  Mary  could  not  deny 
that.    Polly  undoubtedly  did. 

His  admirable  behaviour  inspired  confidence; 
inquiries  after  her  health,  no  reference  to  ambiguous 
exotics,  no  assumptions,  no  plans  for  evening  walks. 
He  went  with  her  to  her  door,  and  left  her  there  with 
a  salute.  But  before  she  could  get  in,  while  she 
stood  with  her  hand  on  the  knocker,  as  if  by  an  after- 
thought he  came  back  to  her  from  the  gate.  Jess 
had  summoned  him  to  Wray brook,  he  said.     He 


ENTER  A  BIRD-CATCHER  401 

knew  that  there  was  something  to  tell  her.  Positively 
he  must  go  the  day  after  to-morrow.  Now,  was  she 
free  to-morrow? 

She  was;  but  she  hesitated  to  say  so.  Well,  then, 
would  she  give  him  a  great  pleasure?  Would  she 
come  with  him  to  Powderham — explore  the  park 
and  the  shore,  have  a  picnic  luncheon  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing  ?  Would  she  ?  As  he  stood  down  there 
below  her,  with  flushed  face  and  smiling,  obsequious 
eyes,  she  thought  that  she  really  might  trust  herself, 
if  not  him.  Polly,  opening  the  door,  was  nodded  to, 
and  told  that  she  need  not  wait.  Polly  needed  no 
telling. 

*'Come,  Mrs.  Mary,"  he  urged  her,  "what  do  you 
say?  Will  you  let  me  look  after  you  for  this  once? 
Will  you  please  to  remember  that  never  once  since 
we  have  known  each  other — how  many  years? — 
have  we  had  a  whole  day  together?  Extraordinary 
fact." 

*^It's  quite  true,"  she  reflected,  "we  never  have. 
Once  we  very  nearly  did,  though." 

"Twice,"  he  corrected  her;  but  she  could  not 
admit  that.    Well,  which  was  her  instance  ? 

It  was  long  ago,  when  she  had  been  at  Misperton 
— had  been  some  six  months  there.  One  Midsum- 
mer Day — surely  he  remembered !  He  had  promised 
to  take  her  to  Glastonbury ;  the  dog-cart  was  to  meet 
them  at  Clewgate  station 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  cried — "And  I  called  for  you — and 
you  were  ready — in  a  brown  holland  frock " 

"Had  I  a  brown  holland  ?    I  remember  that  I  was 


402  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

quite  ready.    And  then  a  note  came  down  from  Mrs. 

James " 

"Beloved  Mrs.  James " 

"And  you  pretended  to  be  angry -'' 

"Pretended!    Oh,  my  dearest  friend — I  swore." 

"I  know  you  did.    And  I " 

"You  pretended  to  cry " 

"No,  no,  there  was  no  pretence.    I  did  cry." 
"Mary,"  he  said,  "why  did  you  cry?" 
She   recovered    herself.      "Because   I   was   very 
young,  and  very  stupid." 

"Now  for  my  instance,"  he  said.  "Not  so  very 
long  ago,  you  were  to  go  to  Blackheath — by  train; 
and  I  went  to  Charing  Cross  station."  But,  with  a 
flaming  face,  and  real  trouble  in  her  eyes,  she  stopped 
him. 

"Please,  don't — you  hurt  me.  I  think  that  you 
forget." 

He  begged  her  pardon  so  sincerely  that  she  could 
not  refuse  the  morrow's  appointment. 

Ihey  met  at  the  station — she  in  a  straw  hat  and 
linen  frock — for  the  weather  was  wonderful;  he  in 
flannels.  The  perils  of  adventure  glittered  in  her 
eyes;  he  played  the  courtier,  sure  now  of  his  game. 
She  begged  for  third-class  tickets,  but  he  compro- 
mised for  second — and  flagrantly  bribed  the  guard 
to  keep  the  carriage.  It  was  impossible  that  she 
should  avoid  the  knowledge  that  she  was  practically 
in  possession — impossible  that  she  should  not  see 
the  approving  smiles  of  the  bystanders.  "A  pretty 
girl  and  her  sweetheart";  simple  comedy,  of  never- 


ENTER  A  BIRD-CATCHER 


403 


ending  charm.  Abhorrent  to  the  Senhouses  of  this 
world,  but  not  to  be  extirpated  until  Birnam  come  to 
Dunsinane. 

Softly  the  knowledge  brooded  upon  her,  softly 
virginal  she  sat,  very  much  aware.  The  epicure 
returned  to  Master  Tristram,  who  by  a  whisper 
could  have  had  her,  but  refrained.  He  sat  by  her, 
but  respectfully — he  discoursed  at  large.  Powder- 
ham  Castle — he  spoke  of  that.  It  was  a  pity  that  the 
fine  place  could  not  be  seen ;  but  the  Courteneys  had 
let  it,  and  he  didn't  know  the  people.  It  was  full,  he 
happened  to  have  heard.  He  believed  that  Bram- 
^  leigh  was  staying  there.  He  forgot  if  she  knew 
Bramleigh;  a  quaint  little  man.  But  probably  she 
wouldn't  want  to  be  bothered  with  a  lot  of  people; 
so  they  must  be  contented  with  the  park.  Thus 
Tristram  discoursed;  and  at  his  discretion  sat  she, 
saying  little,  looking  at  him  never,  heeding  every 
shade  of  inflection,  and  every  hair's  breadth  of 
movement  of  his.  They  reached  the  station;  he 
helped  her  to  descend. 

All  seemed  well  with  Tristram's  wooing.  His 
lady  was  in  a  pensive  mood,  softly  receptive  of  his 
implications.  The  temptation  to  paint  in  bolder 
masses  was  not  resisted,  nor  that  more  subtle  form 
of  art — the  silent  art.  Speechless  they  loitered  to- 
gether; and  sometimes  their  hands  touched,  and 
sometimes  he  hovered  over  her,  as  if  protecting  her 
with  wings.  Her  eyes  were  veiled;  she  appeared 
sleek  as  a  dove  under  his  hand.  Once  he  breathed 
her  name — *'Mary,  oh,  Mary — ";    but  he  saw  her 


404  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

shiver  and  stiffen,  and  knew  that  she  was  still  to  be 
won.  So  be  it!  But  he  could  not  give  over  the  de- 
licious chase.  To  have  her  thus  wide-eyed,  quiver- 
ing, straining  beside  him — like  a  greyhound  taut  at 
his  leash;  he  was  beside  himself  with  longing,  and 
like  a  fool  gave  way. 

"My  dearest — "  he  began,  but  she  checked  him 
with  a  fierce  cry — ''No,  no! — ^Not  that — "  and 
though  he  could  see  nothing  but  the  sharp  outline  of 
her  cheek  and  chin  he  knew  that  she  was  watching 
something.  He  looked  about  him  vaguely.  What 
on  earth — ?  The  sea — a  narrow  strip  of  blue  tum- 
bling water,  spuming  where  it  touched  the  yellow 
sands — the  flecked,  pale  sky — the  gorse — larks  above 
it — in  a  far  corner  a  gipsy's  tent,  and  a  white  horse 
foraging — .    What  on  earth —  ? 

He  drew  back.  She  seemed  to  start  forwards  as  if 
to  escape  from  him — but  then  she  turned  suddenly, 
and  he  saw  that  she  was  pale,  that  she  trembled,  and 
that  there  was  real  trouble  in  her  eyes. 

"I  am  tired,"  she  said,  "very  tired.  May  we  go 
home  now?" 

"Of  course — what  a  brute  I  am.  But  I  thought 
that  you —  Won't  you  tell  me  what  has  tired  you 
all  at  once?" 

"I  don't  know — it  came  over  me — suddenly.  But 
I  do  want  to  go  home,  please — immediately."  Her 
eyes  were  full — brimming.    He  was  touched. 

"Come  then,  we'll  go  to  the  station.  It's  no  great 
distance.    Unless  you  would  rather  sit " 

"Oh,  no,  I  couldn't  possibly!     No,  no,  indeed, 


ENTER  A  BIRD-CATCHER  405 

I  must  go  home.  My  head  aches  dreadfully.  I  think 
a  sunstroke — perhaps.    I  can  hardly  stand  up " 

He  saw  that  that  was  true.  *'Come,"  he  said, 
"take  my  arm.    We'll  go  at  once." 

When  they  had  turned  back  she  seemed  to  recover. 
She  walked,  at  any  rate,  as  fast  as  he  did — set  the 
pace.  But  she  would  not  talk  any  more.  In  the 
train  she  sat  apart,  looking  out  of  the  window — and 
after  a  time  he  let  her  alone. 

At  Exeter  when  he  put  her  in  the  fly  and  would 
have  followed  her,  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 
"Please  don't  come  with  me.  I  shall  be  myself 
directly.  I  beg  you  not  to  come.  And  don't  think 
me  ungrateful — indeed,  you  have  been  kindness  itself. 
I'm  very  much  ashamed  of  myself " 

"I'll  see  you  to-morrow — to  say  good-bye.  You 
will  let  me  do  that?  I  must  know  how  you  are, 
you  see." 

"Yes — come  to-morrow  if  you  will.  Good-bye. 
I  am  much  better.  I  shall  be  quite  well.  But  come, 
of  course,  if  you  had  rather." 

"Of  course  I  shall  come."  He  lifted  his  hat, 
bowed,  and  turned  away.  She  watched  him  walk 
towards  his  hotel.  Then,  with  a  face  of  flame,  she 
turned  to  her  own  affair. 

This  was  to  be  her  last  bid  for  freedom;  her  last 
chance.  If  she  was  to  be  the  crying  shame  of  her 
sex,  it  must  be  so.  Come  what  might,  she  must  call 
for  help. 

She  stayed  the  fly  at  the  door,  paid  the  man,  and 
watched  him  turn  and  go  galloping  down  the  hill. 


4o6  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

Then  she  turned  to  her  affair — across  Exeter  it  took 
her,  to  the  Honiton  road. 

She  walked  the  whole  way,  some  two  miles  out  of 
the  city,  beyond  the  suburbs  to  where  the  open 
country  began.  And  here  she  laid  her  patteran,  with 
branches  of  crimson  maple,  torn  from  the  sunny  side 
of  the  hedge.  At  the  corners  of  two  by-roads  she 
laid  them — one  to  the  South,  one  to  the  North.  Not 
satisfied  with  that,  she  went  North  herself  to  the 
Cullompton  road,  and  laid  two  patter ans  more.  Her 
cheeks  burned  like  fire,  and  in  her  heart  was  a  bitter 
pain;  she  felt  that  she  had  unsexed  herself,  was  be- 
draggled and  bemired.  But  her  need  had  racked  her 
— ^you  can't  blame  the  wretch  writhing  there  if  he  call 
upon  his  God. 


XIX 

HEARTACHE  AND  THE  PHILOSOPHER 

Love,  which  had  given  her  heart  wings  to  soar, 
clogged  Senhouse  about  the  feet,  hobbled  him  and 
caused  him  to  limp.  If  she  had  never  loved  before, 
she  had  played  with  love;  but  to  him  the  woe  was 
new.  One  need  not  inquire  into  his  relations  with 
women,  or  believe  him  immune,  to  understand  that. 
It  was  so  entirely  new  to  him  that  he  refused  to  be- 
lieve in  it.  She  was  present  with  him,  though  with 
her  face  veiled,  night  and  day;  the  thought  of  her 
was  joy ;  his  ledge  of  calochortus  took  a  value  in  his 
eyes  because  she  had  looked  at  them,  knelt  among 
them,  stroked  and  fondled  one,  at  least.  He  mocked 
at  himself  for  searching  out  and  cherishing  the  marks 
of  her  feet,  for  stooping  to  touch  what  seemed  to  be 
the  printings  of  her  knees;  and  yet,  when  he  went 
down  the  Pillar  and  stood  among  other  precious 
growths  of  his,  he  saw  them  a  huddle  of  wet  weeds. 

The  outlook  was  a  bad  one.  He  tried  to  paint, 
and  smeared  out  everything  he  tried;  to  write,  and 
had  nothing  to  say.  He  slept  badly.  And  yet  he 
could  not  leave  the  north;  for  he  had  an  appoint- 
ment in  October  which  would  take  him  to  Penrith. 

A  learned  man  from  Baden  was  coming  out  to  meet 

407 


z|.o8  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

him,  with  proposals  in  his  pockec  of  Grand  Ducal 
dimensions;  two  years'  plant-hunting  in  the  Cauca- 
sus, and  three  years'  gardening— with  the  Schwarz- 
wald  for  his  garden.  So  far  the  Grand  Ducal  Gov- 
ernment was  prepared  to  go  upon  i*eport.  The  thing 
had  been  a  year  coming  to  a  head,  for  Senhouse  was 
a  difficult  man  to  innoculate  with  other  people's 
ideas ;  but  to  such  a  head  it  was  now  brought,  and  he 
felt  that,  whatever  else  he  did,  he  must  by  all  means 
meet  Herr  Doktor  Loffner. 

What  was  he  to  do,  then,  between  June  and  Octo- 
ber ?  Characteristically,  with  the  south  calling  him, 
he  went  north.  He  shipped  at  Leith  and  went  to 
Iceland  with  Bingo  and  a  saddle-bag  for  all  his  lug- 
gage. He  traversed  that  island  from  end  to  end; 
and  though  he  could  not  tire  himself,  he  got  his 
sleeping  powers  back,  began  to  paint  and  to  believe 
in  his  painting,  to  botanize  and  to  be  sure  it  was 
worth  wdiile.  He  knew  next  to  nothing  of  Danish, 
and  was  driven  in  upon  himself  for  company.  Upon 
that  fare  he  throve.  He  moped  no  more,  forgot  Mary 
for  whole  hours  together,  and  believed  himself  cured. 
In  September  he  returned  to  Leith  and  went  afoot 
down  to  Penrith  to  meet  the  Herr  Doktor. 

Their  greeting  was  cordial.  ^'  Oh,  man  of  silences, 
oh,  thou  unlettered  one,  do  I  find  thee  in  truth?" 

^^My  dear  Doctor  Loffner,  you  do  indeed.  Come 
into  the  yard  and  I'll  show  you  some  things  w^orth 
having." 

^' Where  have  you  been,  my  friend?" 

*' Iceland." 


HEARTACHE  AND   THE   PHILOSOPHER     409 

^'Iceland!  Ach,  then  you  haf — ?  No,  you  haf 
not — ?    Never  in  the  worlt!" 

"I'm  not  sure.  But  I  rather  think  that  I  have." 
What  he  had  was  some  earth  and  broken  hmestone 
in  a  sponge-bag — so  far  as  could  be  seen.  But  there 
was  enough  beside  to  occupy  the  pair  of  them  until 
dinner.  Before  that  meal  was  ready  the  Doctor  had 
fallen  weeping  on  Senhouse's  neck,  had  clasped  him 
to  his  breast.  "Thou  hast  it — thou  hast  it — oh, 
wonder-child!" — and  then,  as  he  wiped  the  dew 
from  his  glasses,  with  a  startling  lapse  into  idiom — 
"I  say!    Dot  was  cholly." 

The  dinner  was  very  gay ;  Bingo  had  an  indigestion. 

Next  morning,  the  great  man  was  taken  out  and 
about  to  view  the  various  fields  of  tillage;  the  ledge 
where  calochortus  had  been  fair  in  Mary's  eyes,  the 
larkspur  slope,  and  what  could  be  done  v/ith  Alpines 
upon  a  Cumberland  moraine.  He  was  more  than 
amazed,  he  was  convinced.  "You  are  chust  the  man 
for  us.  We  pick  you  up  cheap,  I  consider,  for  ten 
thousand  mark."  Senhouse  was  not  concerned  to 
affirm  or  deny;  but  he  insisted  upon  it  that  he  was 
selling  his  liberty  very  cheaply  indeed.  "And  I 
wouldn't  do  it,  you  know,  for  a  hundred  thousand," 
he  said,  "if  it  weren't  for  the  two  years  in  the  Cau- 
casus. You  have  me  there,  I  own.  I've  hungered 
after  that  for  years,  and  now  I'll  take  it  as  it  comes 
to  me.  There  must  be  irises  there  which  neither 
Leichtlin  nor  Korolkov  have  spotted — I'm  certain 
of  it." 

"And  you  are  the  man  to  spod  them,"  said  Herr 


4IO 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


Loffner  with  deep  feeling.  *^Bod,  mind  you,  we  haf 
them  wid  you  in  Schwarzwald." 

^^ Honour  among  thieves/'  said  Senhouse.  *^ De- 
pend upon  me." 

Herr  Loffner  passed  by  the  proposal  that  he  should 
be  taken  to  the  Dukeries  to  see  the  cyclamen,  or  to 
Wales  for  the  peonies,  or  to  Cornwall  for  the  Ra- 
mondias;  but  he  could  not  resist  the  promise  of 
Syrian  irises  growing  wild  on  Dartmoor.  That  he 
must  see  before  he  died ;  and  he  would  take  Kew  and 
necessary  business  there  on  the  way.  Agreed ;  they 
would  start  in  the  morning  by  the  express  from  Carlisle. 

This  they  did;  Loffner,  Senhouse,  and  Bingo 
journeyed  to  London,  and  put  up  at  the  Grand 
Hotel,  which  was  chosen  by  the  savant  solely  on 
account  of  its  name.  *^I  feel  grand  to  haf  got  you 
my  Senhouse,"  said  he;  ^^let  us  therefore  go  to  the 
grandest  hotel  we  can  find."  It  was  not  in  his 
friend's  power  to  correct  this  simplicity;  and  the 
Grand  Hotel  was  too  grand  for  him. 

In  the  *^ lounge"  of  this  palace — *^all  looking- 
glasses  and  whisky,"  as  he  described  it — it  was 
necessary  for  him  to  spend  certain  moments  while 
Herr  Loffner  briskly  inspected  rooms,  menus,  and 
lists  of  wines.  Briskly,  but  with  method,  he  went 
to  work.  Senhouse,  having  discovered  that  most  of 
the  plants  were  imitation  and  the  others  dying,  flung 
himself  upon  a  plush  settee  and  picked  up  journal 
after  journal,  in  the  hope  of  finding  one  which  did 
not  contain  either  photographs  of  ladies  or  adver- 
tisements.   He  was  grumbling  over  an  evening  sheet 


HEARTACHE  AND   THE  PHILOSOPHER    411 

when  his  friend  joined  him  and,  sighing  his  content 
at  a  good  dinner  ahead  of  him,  produced  and  lighted 
a  cigar.  Senhouse  found  himself  reading  for  a  sec- 
ond time  a  paragraph  of  a  leading  article  which  be- 
gan thus: — 

''Ever  since  the  by-election  in  Farlingbridge, 
caused  by  the  death  of  Mr.  Germain,  the  Govern- 
ment has  been  losing  seats  with  a  steadiness  as  rea- 
sonable as  reason  can  require."  Midway  through 
his  second  reading  he  stiffened  and  sat  up. 

"Excuse  me,  Loffner,"  he  said,  ''but  I  must  leave 
you  for  an  hour  or  so.'' 

Herr  Loffner  beamed  and  bowed.  "I  am  sorry, 
but  submit.  Only — you  must  promise  me  to  come 
back,  or  I  lose  you,  du  wilder  Mann.^^ 

Senhouse  was  not  vague;  on  the  contrary,  he  was 
remarkably  collected.  "Yes,  I'll  come  back.  But 
this  is  a  matter  of  losing  myself — or  the  reverse,  as 
the  case  may  be."  He  nodded,  and  walked  straight 
out  of  the  hotel  into  the  street.  Bingo,  stepping  deli- 
cately, with  ears  set  back  and  muzzle  to  earth,  fol- 
lowed close  to  his  right  heel.  He  shared  his  master's 
contempt  of  London,  but  added  fear. 

The  hour  was  late  for  callers,  since  it  was  now 
half-past  seven,  but  he  knew  nothing  of  hours.  He 
went  directly  to  Hill-street  and  rang  the  bell.  After 
a  long  interval  a  caretaker  released  many  a  bolt  and 
peered  round  the  edge  of  the  door.  A  respectable, 
grey-haired  lady,  very  anxious. 

"Mrs.  Germain?"  said  Senhouse.  He  almost 
heard  her  sigh. 


412  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"Out  of  town,  sir." 

"So  I  see.  But  where  is  she?"  Bingo  hfted  his 
head  high,  snuffed  the  air,  mishked  it,  and  yawned. 

The  elderly  lady  had  no  more  doubts.  "She 
would  be  at  Southover  House,  Sir.  The  family  is 
expected  on  the  15th  for  a  few  days,  on  their  way 
abroad." 

Senhouse  jerked  away  all  this  surplusage.  "The 
family?  What  family?  It  is  Mrs.  John  Germain, 
I  mean." 

Whatever  caution  may  have  lingered  in  the  care- 
taker now  disappeared,  in  the  occasion  of  a  treasured 
wonder  to  be  revealed.  "Oh,  Sir,  we  don't  know 
anything  about  her.  It's  all  a  mystery,  Sir,  and  has 
been  since  Mr.  John — passed  away." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  she  was  asked. 

Her  cue!  "She's  not  been  seen  or  heard  of.  Sir — 
not  by  her  own  family  nor  by  ours.  She  went  away 
by  herself  in  July — after  the  event.  Sir — and  here's 
October  come  round,  and  never  heard  of  yet." 

Senhouse  betrayed  nothing;  but  his  mind  moved 
like  lightning.  "Tell  me  exactly  what  you  mean," 
he  bade  her;  and  she  did,  omitting  nothing.  He 
listened,  made  no  comments,  and  gave  no  chances. 

Then  he  asked  her,  "Do  you  know  Mr.  Duplessis's 
address?" 

She  did  not. 

"His  club ? "    She  said  she  would  call  her  husband. 

The  husband  in  his  shirt-sleeves  was  all  for  specu- 
lation upon  the  affair — speculation  at  large,  illustra- 
ted by  reminiscences.    Duplessis  was  a  good  gambit ; 


HEARTACHE  AND   THE  PHILOSOPHER 


413 


but  the  moment  he  had  opened  by  saying  that  many 
a  time  had  he  stood  behind  Mr.  Duplessis's  chair  at 
the  Reform  he  found  himself  rehearsing  to  his  wife 
things  that  she  had  heard  but  an  hour  ago.  Sen- 
house  had  snapped  out  his  ^'Reform!  Thanks," 
and  gone  his  way. 

At  the  Reform — Bingo  coiled  on  the  steps,  with 
one  eye  wary  for  peril — he  learned  that  Duplessis 
was  in  Devonshire.  ^^Wraybrook  Park,  near  Honi- 
ton,"  was  his  address.  He  returned  to  the  hotel  and 
found  Herr  Loffner  immovable  in  his  place,  and  still 
with  a  cigar.  But  he  was  deplorably  hungry,  and 
leapt  to  his  feet  the  moment  he  saw  Senhouse. 

*^  Thank  God  for  you,"  he  warmly  said.  ^'Come 
and  dine." 

*'I  can't  dine,  Loffner.  You  must  hoard  your 
thanksgiving.  I'm  going  down  to  Devonshire." 
The  savant  gazed  at  him. 

*^To  Devonshire — without  dinner!  That  is  not 
possible,  my  friend.  To  begin,  it  is  bad  for  you — 
secondly,  it  is  late." 

*^0h,"  said  Senhouse,  '^I'm  a  night-bird,  you 
know.  I  don't  want  you  to  come  with  me — in  fact, 
I'd  rather  you  didn't.  You've  got  lots  to  do  at  Kew, 
and  can  meet  me  there.  But  I  must  be  off  in  half  an 
hour.    I  shall  catch  the  9.25." 

Herr  Loffner  looked  at  his  watch,  then  at  his 
friend's  dog,  then  at  his  friend.  Smiles  played  about 
his  face  and  eyes.  ^^What  mischief  do  you  medi- 
tate? What  dark  work?"  he  said;  and  you  could 
hear  the  enthusiasm  gurgling  beneath,   like  flood 


414  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

water  in  a  drain.  But  Senhouse  was  unfathomable, 
and  for  once  not  smiling. 

"It^s  serious  work  I'm  after.  Life-and-death 
work,  I  believe.  My  trip  to  the  Caucasus  hangs  on 
it — and  all  my  trips  to  come." 

'^Herrje!    Du  lieber !" 

"I  know.  It's  a  queer  thing.  Nothing  seemed  to 
hang  upon  anything  this  morning,  and  now  every- 
thing upon  one  thing.  It's  no  good,  my  dear  man, 
I  can't  explain.  Trust  me,  I'll  telegraph  to  you  from 
Exeter  and  wait  for  you  there.'' 

"Bod — "  said  Herr  Loffner  out  of  his  chest.  "If 
you  haf  here  a  life-and-death-works — I  cannot  un- 
derstand. If  you  make  of  it  life-works,  you  tele- 
graph and  I  come.  But  if  it  is  a  death-works — what 
then?" 

"It  won't  be,"  said  Senhouse.  "It  can't  be. 
Good-bye."    Herr  Loffner  went  to  his  dinner. 

At  Wraybrook  Park  his  lean  face  was  announced 
to  Duplessis  at  half-past  ten  in  the  morning,  at  the 
breakfast-table,  by  a  respectful  butler.  It  was  not 
told  him  that  it  had  awaited  him  since  eight  o'clock. 

"Some  one  to  see  me — in  the  drive?"  he  had 
asked,  suspecting  nothing.    "Why  in  the  drive?" 

"The  gentleman  preferred  to  be  outside.  Sir.  He 
had  a  dog  with  him." 

Duplessis  stared  at  his  plate.  "All  right.  I'll 
come  in  a  minute,"  he  said,  and  resumed  his  meal. 

At  eleven  he  came  out  of  the  front  door,  cigar  in 
mouth,  and  saw  immediately  what  was  in  store  for 
him.     The   carriage   drive   at   Wraybrook   sweeps 


HEARTACHE  AND  THE  PHILOSOPHER    415 

round  the  lake,  which  is  the  great  feature  of  the 
place.  On  the  edge  of  that  he  had  seen  in  a  moment 
the  tall  man  in  grey,  bareheaded,  talking  with  one  of 
the  gardeners,  and  had  flushed.  His  eyes  narrowed, 
and  glittered;  he  paused  perceptibly,  then  drew  a 
breath  and  went  down  over  the  lawn. 

Bingo,  sitting  up  on  his  haunches,  gave  a  short 
yap  of  warning,  then  apologized  to  his  master. 
Senhouse  finished  what  he  had  to  say  to  the  gar- 
dener, nodded  and  went  up  to  meet  his  man. 

They  encountered  without  recognition:  Bingo, 
with  lifted  forefoot,  reserved  his  judgment.  His 
custom  was  to  run  in  and  apply  the  test  of  nose  to 
calf;  but  in  this  case  he  stayed  behind. 

'^You  wish  to  see  me,  I'm  told."  Duplessis  spoke 
first. 

''Yes,"  said  Senhouse,  "I  do.  I  have  to  trouble 
you.    I  have  just  heard  of  John  Germain's  death." 

In  some  sort  Duplessis  had  been  prepared  for  this 
— but  in  no  way  which  could  have  been  explained. 
He  was  able  to  take  it  quietly. 

"News  travels  slowly  your  way,"  he  said.  ''Ger- 
main died  in  July." 

"So  I  have  learned;  but  it  must  have  been  sud- 
den. I  happen  to  know  that  he  was  quite  well  at  the 
beginning  of  that  month;  and  had  not  the  least 
reason  to  expect  any  such  thing." 

"Why  should  you?"  Duplessis  was  rather  fam- 
ous for  impertinence. 

Senhouse  said,  "I'll  tell  you.-  I  saw  Mrs.  Ger- 
main early  in  July" — Duplessis  grew  red — "In  fact, 


41 6  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

she  must  have  gone  directly  from  the  North,  where 
I  met  her,  to  her  husband's  bedside." 

"I  think  I'll  interrupt  you  for  one  moment," 
Duplessis  said.  ^'You  are  probably  as  interested 
in  saving  time  as  I  am.  Therefore  the  sooner  I  know 
how  I  can  serve  you  the  better  for  both  of  us."  Bingo 
who  had  been  looking  with  gloomy  interest  at  the 
root  of  his  tail,  here  attacked  it  with  ferocity.  Sen- 
house  laughed. 

"I'll  tell  you.    Mrs.  Germain  has  disappeared." 

Duplessis  asked,  "Do  you  want  me  to  find  her 
for  you?" 

"I  want  you,"  said  Senhouse,  "to  tell  me  where 
she  is." 

Duplessis  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  "Really, 
I  don't  know  what  business  you  have  to  ask  me  that." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you,  if  you  please,"  said  Senhouse. 
"When  she  left  the  North  she  did  not,  I  believe,  go 
directly  to  London.  She  went  to  Blackheath,  to  her 
people.    There  she  saw  you." 

"Who  told  you  that,  Sir?"    Duplessis  was  angry. 

"She  told  me  that  she  should  see  you  there.  It 
had  not  been  her  intention:  but  she  changed  her 
mind." 

"Then  I  have  to  thank  you,  Mr.  Senhouse,  for  an 
insufferable  interference  in  my  affairs,"  said  Du- 
plessis. 

"I  advised  her  to  see  you — yes.  Come,  now,"  he 
said  with  a  change  of  tone  which  Duplessis  found 
hard  to  bear,  "you  have  had  your  innings,  I  was 
careful  not  to  touch  on  that.    You  have  had  more 


HEARTACHE  AND   THE   PHILOSOPHER    417 

than  one,  if  I  don't  mistake  you.  I  think  now  that 
I  go  in." 

Duplessis  was  not  the  man  to  give  candour  for 
candour.  His  eyes  were  steady  on  his  enemy.  "I 
don't  give  ladies'  addresses  without  their  leave,  3'Ou 
know." 

^'You  may  assume  it  here.  When  I  saw  Mrs. 
Germain  in  Cumberland  she  gave  me  to  understand 
that  she  might  wish  to  see  me  again." 

^'If  she  had  wished  it,"  said  Duplessis,  ^^I  sup- 
pose she  would  have  told  you  where  she  was.  Ap- 
parently she  does  not  wish  it." 

^'Obviously  you  do  not,"  Senhouse  replied;  ^^and 
I  have  reasons  for  putting  your  wish  and  her  action 
together.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  could  not  let 
me  know  anything,  because  I  have  no  certain  address." 

''Your  addresses  are  nothing  whatever  to  me," 
said  Duplessis.    ''I  decline  to  tell  you  anything." 

''Very  well,"  said  Senhouse  slowly.  "Then  you 
must  get  what  good  you  can  out  of  that." 

Duplessis  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away. 
Bingo,  sleek  and  swift,  ran  after  him  and  sniffed 
daintily  at  his  calves.  Curiosity,  so  to  speak,  was 
behind  him,  drove  his  tail  in  between  his  legs.  It 
wanted  but  a  spark  to  kindle  the  smouldering  young 
man,  and  here  it  was.  He  turned  again,  blazing. 
"Call  in  your  cur,  will  you?  They  don't  allow  dogs 
here." 

"Bingo,  heel,"  said  Senhouse,  and  watched  him^ 
smiling  quietly. 


& 


XX 


IN  WHICH  BINGO  IS  UNANSWERABLE 


Swinging  along  his  miles  from  Honiton  back  into 
Exeter  he  saw  the  patteran  just  within  the  two-mile- 
stone. "She  wants  me.  She's  here.  Bless  her  wild 
heart."  Then  he  walked  into  the  city,  sat  in  the 
tree-shaded  alley  of  the  inn  by  Exebridge,  and  break- 
fasted, as  well  he  might.  He  had  eaten  nothing  since 
yesterday's  noon. 

At  two  o'clock,  as  he  leaned,  smoking  his  pipe  and 
looking  at  the  river,  he  saw  Duplessis  in  a  dog-cart 
drive  over  the  bridge.  This  was  precisely  what  he 
had  expected  the  moment  he  saw  the  patteran  in  the 
road.  ''He'll  lunch  before  he  moves;  he'll  treat 
himself  handsomely.  I'll  give  him  till  half-past 
three.  Then  we  go  together — the  three  of  us." 
Bingo  lowered  his  ears.  Senhouse  and  he  were  too 
old  friends  for  eye-service  or  tail-signals.  Together 
they  crossed  the  bridge  and  strolled  up  the  curving 
street.  The  second  inn-yard  they  visited  showed 
them  the  Wraybrook  dog-cart,  high  and  yellow- 
wheeled.  "He's  put  up.  He  goes  back  to-night. 
He's  lunching.    Now  what  shall  we  do?    I  think,  a 

walk." 

418 


IN  WHICH  BINGO   IS   UNANSWERABLE    419 

He  addressed  himself  to  the  wooded  heights  which 
look  down  on  Exeter.  His  spirits  were  high  to  meet 
the  evening's  battle;  he  urged  Bingo  to  extend  him- 
self, infected  him  with  the  fray  to  come.  "My 
friend,  do  you  know  who  lives  in  this  town  ?  Do  you 
know  whom  we  are  to  see  by-and-by?  A  gentle- 
handed  acquaintance,  my  friend — a  lover  of  yours, 
whose  troubles  have  been  told  you  and  me  by  signs. 
Not  by  words,  Bingo,  my  boy;  for  words  have  not 
been  made  fine  enough  to  voice  her  thoughts,  half- 
thoughts  and  quarter-thoughts:  no,  but  by  a  sigh 
scarcely  heard,  or  a  hand  on  your  head,  by  caresses, 
and  lingering  touches,  and  suchlike  pretty  talk. 
That's  how  we  know  her,  and  what  we  love  her  for, 
Bingo;  because  she's  timid  and  full  of  alarms — all 
on  the  edge  of  the  real  thing,  hovering  on  the 
threshold  of  the  cage." 

Bingo  pricked  up  his  ears,  then  whined.  He 
moved  his  head  to  acknowledge  a  friendly  speech, 
but  he  was  trembling  and  looking  up  the  road. 

"Bingo,  come  in,"  said  Senhouse,  and  trembled, 
too.  He  saw  Mary  coming  up  the  road,  books  under 
her  arm.  She  was  rosy  with  breasting  the  hill;  and 
he  could  see  that  her  eyes  were  very  bright.  He 
could  see,  from  the  gate  at  which  he  leaned,  that  she 
was  charged  with  excitement;  that  her  lips  were 
never  still,  that  she  looked  sideways  for  events.  He 
had  to  put  his  hand  on  Bingo's  head  to  keep  him 
back — and  to  keep  himself  back.  "I'll  give  him  one 
more  chance,"  he  told  himself,  and  stayed  where  he 
was.      Mary    passed    him,    all    unconscious,    went 


420 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


quickly  up  the  road,  stopped  at  a  white  gate,  and 
slowly  pushed  it  open.  As  she  went  in  he  saw  her 
pause  and  look  down  the  road  by  which  she  had 
come.  Then  she  went  in,  and  the  gate  swung  to  and 
fro,  and  clicked  as  the  latch  caught. 

Senhouse  inspected  the  gate,  then  his  watch. 
''Rosemount  Academy  for  Young  Ladies^ — three 
o'clock.  She'^  teaching  till  four.  She  expects  him." 
He  retired  to  his  trees;  but  had  to  call  Bingo 
twice.  He  was  halfway  up  the  drive,  nosing  out 
his  friend. 

Duplessis  came  up  the  hill  at  five  minutes  to  four, 
and  sm^oked  three  cigarettes  one  after  another.  He 
looked  at  his  watch  incessantly,  as  he  walked  up  and 
down  the  road.  Senhouse  watched  him  calmly, 
not  making  any  effort  at  concealment — but  con- 
cealed, because,  it  was  obvious,  Duplessis  had  no  no- 
tion of  his  whereabouts.  Ladies — young  ladies  in 
straw  hats — came  out  of  Rosemount  Academy  in  twos 
and  threes  and  vanished  up  or  down  the  road,  as  the 
case  might  be.  Some  rode  bicycles,  and  waved  the 
prouder  farewells  to  their  friends  afoot.  One  was 
fetched  in  a  brougham  by  a  furred  matron ;  two  had 
a  maid;  and  one  joined  a  brother  in  a  cricket  cap. 
Ladies  of  severer  mien,  tightly  jacketed  and  in 
black,  came  presently;  a  long-haired  music-master 
— and  Mary. 

As  she  stood  beyond  the  gate  she  saw  Duplessis. 
Senhouse  knew  that  by  her  look.  She  had  a  trick, 
when  she  was  at  a  pass,  of  driving  all  expression  from 
her  eyes.    They  showed  then  as  masks  of  black:   it 


IN   WHICH  BINGO   IS   UNANSWERABLE     421 

was  her  way  of  defence.  You  could  not  tell  whether 
she  was  glad  or  afraid  of  you. 

But  she  addressed  herself  to  her  task;  completed, 
or  allowed  the  young  musician  to  complete,  the  con- 
versation, bade  him  a  smiling  farewell  which  sent 
him  happily  on  his  way,  and  then  waited,  blankly, 
but  with  colour,  for  Duplessis.  The  road  was  now 
empty  but  for  these  two. 

He  came  up,  lifting  his  hat;  he  took  her  hand,  and 
held  it  while  he  bent  to  speak  to  her.  Senhouse  saw 
her  so  held,  but  with  averted  face;  saw  that  she  was 
listening,  that  she  was  serious — too  serious  to  be 
frightened.  Once  he  saw  her  look  up  at  the  man, 
and  frame  No  with  her  grave  lips;  once  again  look 
up  and  frame  Yes.  At  that  second  answer  Duplessis 
took  her  hand  again — her  left  hand  which  had  been 
idle  by  her  side — and  held  it  while  he  continued  to 
talk  vehemently,  in  low  tones.  He  watched  her  now 
intently,  as  she  fought  these  long  odds;  and  had 
Bingo  by  the  scruff — Bingo  on  his  hind  legs,  shiver- 
ing and  whining  in  whispers — ^^ Steady,  boy;  hold 
yourself ." 

Mary  was  now  pale,  and  in  her  eyes  was  the  light 
of  distress.  They  beaconed  across  the  way:  but  no 
help  came.  As  she  listened  she  began  to  breathe 
quickly;  he  could  see  her  bosom's  unrest.  Her  hand 
was  caught  up  to  Tristram's  lips — but  she  sprang 
away  then,  and  her  ^'Oh,  no,  no!  Never,  never — I 
could  not  do  it,"  gave  Senhouse  the  cue  for  which  he 
shook.  He  loosed  Bingo,  who,  like  a  streak  of  grey 
light,  shot  across  the  road. 


42  2  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

Duplessis  started  violently;  but  a  low  glad  cry- 
came  from  Mary's  heart.  ^^ Bingo!  Oh,  my  dearest 
friend!  Oh,  Bingo!"  She  stooped  in  the  road,  and 
the  two  were  one.  Then  she  rose  vividly  bright  and 
waited  for  Senhouse. 

He  crossed  the  road  leisurely — with  no  looks  for 
Duplessis.  He  held  out  the  maple-branch.  '^My 
excuse,"  he  said.  She  took  it  from  him,  and  kept  it 
in  her  hand.  But  she  could  not  speak.  In  the  pres- 
ence of  the  two  men  she  showed  nothing  common  or 
mean — no  consciousness.  She  was  perhaps  at  her 
best:  her  colour  high,  but  not  painful,  her  eyes  seri- 
ous, but  not  veiled.  Modesty  had  been  jarring 
affectation  here :  modesty  was  not  possible.  Her  left 
hand  still  held  Bingo's  head  to  her  side:  Bingo  on 
his  hind  legs,  revelling  in  her  hand. 

The  two  men,  each  in  his  way,  put  their  fate  to  the 
touch.  Neither  took  his  eyes  off  her,  neither  gave 
an  inch.  Duplessis  would  not  have  compromised  if 
he  could.  His  sullen  rage  was  patent:  he  let  it 
smoulder.  Senhouse  smiled — all  the  faun  showed  in 
him:  the  stored  secret  knowledge,  the  power  of  the 
adept,  of  the  seer  into  the  dark,  of  him  who  v/ould 
mock  if  he  were  not  full  of  pity. 

He  spoke  first.  ^'It  seems  that  you  are  to  choose," 
he  said.    ^' I  can  ask  you  to  do  that." 

Her  soft  eyes  beamed,  and  her  smile  met  his  in  the 
way.    *' Halfway  House?"  she  said,  asking. 

He  nodded.    ''Halfway  House,  we'll  put  it  still." 

Duplessis  said  nothing  at  all;  but  fixed  her  with 
his  knit  brows.    A  good  ear  might  have  heard  three 


IN  WHICH  BINGO   IS  UNANSWERABLE     423 

hearts  beating.  I  think  that  Bingo's  did,  for  he 
nozzled  in  Mary's  hand. 

She  let  him  gently  down,  stooped  over  him,  kissed 
his  head,  whispered  in  his  ear.  Then,  rising  to  her 
assize,  with  a  look  divinely  mild  and  a  gesture  of 
confidence  which  brought  tears  into  one  pair  of  eyes, 
she  put  her  hand  in  Senhouse's,  and  stood  by  his 
side. 

Duplessis  stiffened  and  looked  at  the  pair  of  them. 
''I  take  your  answer,"  he  said,  bowed  to  her,  and 
walked  down  the  hill.  Bingo,  sitting  sagely  on  his 
haunches,  suddenly  yawned. 

Shyly  they  turned  to  each  other,  shyly  kissed. 
Senhouse  kissed  her  twice,  then  threw  his  head  back 
and  laughed  his  joy  to  the  skies.  ^^Oh,  wonder  of 
the  world!"  he  cried,  and  took  her  to  his  heart. 

Here's  for  the  last  of  her.  In  the  train,  on  their 
way  to  London  and  Loffner,  Senhouse  was  com- 
menting upon  what  lay  before  them:  the  Caucasus, 
the  Schwarzwald.  What  would  she  do  in  the  Cau- 
casus, for  example?  That  was  easy.  ''I  shall  sit  in 
the  door  of  the  tent,  waiting  for  you,"  she  told  him. 
In  the  Black  Forest  ?    What  else  ? 

He  believed  her.  *^We  are  to  leave  Halfway 
House,  then  ?"  and  then  he  looked  out  of  the  window 
at  the  rolling  hills  of  Wilts.  "At  any  rate,  here  I  am 
a  bondslave — yoked  by  Baden  for  five  years.  Make 
what  you  will  of  it." 

She  said  nothing;  she  was  always  slow  of  speech 
with  her  betters  when  thev  talked  above  her  head. 


424 


HALFWAY  HOUSE 


But  she  pondered  the  saying,  it  was  clear,  for  pres- 
ently she  picked  up  his  hand,  stooped  to  it,  and 
kissed  it;  then,  lowering  her  head,  put  his  arm  over 
her  neck,  and  looked  at  him  from  below  it.  It  was 
a  pretty  act,  one  of  her  prettiest.  He  saw  the  beauty 
of  her  gentle  rebuke. 

It  sent  him  to  his  knees.  Bingo,  sitting  on  her 
skirt,  looked  pityingly  at  his  master,  for  a  few  sec- 
ofids,  and  then  up  into  her  face. 

The  End 


in 


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fi^.'t' 


